


Fallen

by 50ShadesofCray



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 08, Season/Series 09, Supernatural - Freeform, almost human crowley, crowley - Freeform, fallen naomi, naomi - Freeform, naomi alive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:41:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 82,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/50ShadesofCray/pseuds/50ShadesofCray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Naomi wakes up in the middle of a crossroads, not knowing how she got there or why. Realizing the angels have fallen, she sets off to form a plan to reclaim Heaven and exact revenge on Metatron. That is, until Crowley throws a wrench in said plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crossroads

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: If I could make money from this, I wouldn't be posting it here.
> 
> Author's Note: This story hovers somewhere between canon and fanon. While I make a solid effort to align the story with facts from canon, well, sometimes fanon takes over and makes me do naughty things—like putting Crowley and Naomi in a story together.

As she opened her eyes, they were met by a blinding light. It was her first impulse to be afraid. She held her hand in front of them to try and shield this light that was impeding her vision. Gradually, her eyes adjusted, allowing them to widen from their squinting position to see that the source of this light was simply the sun, which shone brightly overhead. Calming herself, she managed to sit up and survey her surroundings. Little flashes of a memory played in her head, but in her confused state, she couldn't recognize or place them. Intuitively, she knew them to be of grave importance, but didn't quite understand why. In earnest, she tried to focus, but she felt too weak, too vulnerable. Glancing around her, she saw absolutely nothing except a road which stretched in four directions. There was not a soul-or monster-in sight, only a couple of birds flying overhead, their wings beating against a backdrop of expansive blue sky. It all seemed so peaceful, and that was so very wrong somehow.

Gathering what little strength she had and with much deliberation, she rose and found herself struggling to stand on shaky legs. Blurry images of an event that she was certain to have happened bounced around the insides of her head, pounding as they collided with her returning consciousness. She almost fell over. The face she was seeing gradually came into focus as the fog of her coma lifted. Fear jolted through her as one image presented itself clearly to her.

Metatron.

She gasped and suddenly remembered what had happened. She'd warned him to stay away from her; she'd told him she had work to do, which included preventing him from expelling the angels and cutting them off from Heaven. There was a bright light and pain, a lot of pain, as he drove her own drill into the side of her head. It happened so quickly. Then, there was darkness. Somehow, she'd ended up here, wherever here was. And she was alive. She tried to remember anything else, but couldn't. She wasn't sure if it was because she wasn't able to remember anything else, or if there was simply nothing else to remember.

She wondered how long she'd been unconscious. Metatron had by now taken over Heaven, she was sure of it, which meant that she was stuck on Earth and unable to go home. She wondered about the other angels. They would have been cast out of Heaven by Metatron, they were no doubt wandering the Earth lost and confused. They would be looking for leadership, and she needed to make sure they didn't align themselves with an angel who would do them further harm. She tried listening for other angels, and heard nothing but radio silence which she attributed to her weakened state. It seemed that she was even more alone than before. She needed to form a plan of action. Many thoughts entered her mind: where would she go in the meantime? What should she do first? The most crucial question, however, was how she managed to be alive right this very minute. It bewildered her, but most of all, it made her uneasy. She didn't like questions she couldn't answer.

Knowing she couldn't stay where she was and that she desperately needed to regain her strength, she remembered the abandoned house that served as her home on Earth when it suited her purposes. It was in a rural area, away from everything and everyone. No one could find her there. It would give her time to recuperate sufficiently enough so that she could begin working on a plan to reclaim Heaven for the angels. Most of all, she wanted to see Metatron disposed of in the most painful way possible. He would rightfully pay for what he had done to her and her brothers and sisters. She would make sure of it.

Right now, the world was in chaos. It was angel against demon, and angel against angel, and Metatron against all the angels... It was enough to make her head spin, and spin it did. In the blink of an eye, she arrived at her destination. Her strength was totally drained by the travel, and upon arrival at the abandoned house, she collapsed on the floor. Once more, she fell victim to unconsciousness.

* * *

She felt her cheek lying against something cool and smooth, but it was what she smelled that jolted her awake. Suddenly, she sat up and saw a ring of fire encircling her. The flames stood tall, burning hotly in shades of orange, red, and yellow. Her eyes darted around the room until they fell on him; she could feel her face contort with utter contempt. He grinned, which only served to further infuriate her.

"Hello, darling. Sleep well?"

"Crowley." It wasn't even a question. She bared her teeth as she helped herself up. He had her trapped and this realization made her even more infuriated, if that was possible. He stepped closer to the fire, and she saw him look her once over.

"The one and the same. I heard a nasty rumor about you, Naomi. Glad to see it's not true." The way he drawled "nasty" made her want to hit him. She was not one to engage in senseless acts of violence, but she could find five reasons to justify a punch to his face.

"I do not have time for this. Undo this trap this instant, Crowley."

"I don't think so, sweetheart. You and I have business to discuss." He pulled up a chair and another demon brought him a drink. He was savoring this, she could tell. The last time he'd tried to make a deal with her, she'd disappeared on him before he could even make a proposal. This time, she'd have to listen, but she already knew her answer would be no to whatever scheme he was going to lay out before her. She knew every single one of his lies, his tricks, the aces up his sleeve... They'd known each other almost since the beginning of time, and she was well-versed in his angles. So, well-versed, in fact, that she didn't listen to anything he had to say.

"You and I haven't any business to discuss. I will never, ever do business with the likes of you, you bottom-dwelling amoeba." She crossed her arms in front of her. She would've really liked to smite him, except now, she had no defenses, thanks to his trap.

"Oh, I think we do. You see, we're both trying to save our homes—you Heaven, me Hell. The angels have fallen—"

At this, something in her snapped and suddenly, she unleashed her wings, which spanned across the room. Her eyes glowed brightly, menacingly. The anger at Metatron and fury at Crowley met inside and she didn't want to hold back anymore. She brought herself up to her full height.

But Crowley wasn't intimidated. "Oh, calm down! For once would you listen to me without getting your knickers in a knot?"

Her wings remained out, but the glow in her eyes receded. Just. "When I get out of this trap—"

Crowley was getting impatient. "And who said I'll ever let you out? Look, love, we're fighting the same battle. I don't want to be sealed up in Hell no more than you want to have to stay on Earth for the rest of eternity. We can help each other out." He walked halfway around the circle of fire, looking thoughtful. Scheming, more like it, Naomi thought. "Here's the thing. If you don't agree to help me, which in effect would be helping you, too, then not only will I never let you out of the trap, but I will tell my boys to start capturing angels at will. And I'll torture them until they reveal the secrets you think you are protecting, just as I did Samandriel. I will torture them until they can't take it any more and they die. Maybe I'll even start with Castiel, who may be the only one who knows how to reverse the spell that cast you lot to Earth in the first place. All the while, you'll be watching and listening to their begging and pleading and screaming. Do you understand?" His dark eyes bore into hers, and she could see the flames from the fire dancing in them.

She reared her head back and spit on him. "You are vile. And you wonder why you should be sealed away in Hell?"

Taking a handkerchief from his jacket, he wiped his face. "Don't get hoity-toity with me; I've seen you play with your food, after all. You have some delicious methods that I hope you'll get a chance to show me during our tenure together. There was a time you would've considered it foreplay."

A tiny bit of crimson crept up her cheeks, though she successfully suppressed a shiver. What she did—was doing—was protecting her family. Everything she did was to protect them, not for the sake of torture itself. No one was killed for the pleasure of it. She stood up straight with an air of defiance about her. She jerked her chin up haughtily.

"And don't give me that piece that you were doing it to protect Heaven and the angels, blah, blah, blah. You are ruthless, deceitful, conniving...and if I'm being perfectly honest, it's quite a turn on. As you well know..."

"Oh, shut up."

"Keep it up, darling, and I might have to find us a bed in this place." The amusement on his face was revolting. She had to turn away. "Listen, after we're done saving our respective homes, you can resume your arrogance, ascend back to Heaven in style, and flap your wings at anyone who will listen. Until then, we can bat for the same team, so to speak. Just hear me out."

Not seeing any other option, she agreed to listen to him. But, as she emphasized over and over in her mind, not that there was any other option. "All right. What do you propose?"

"It's quite simple, really," he sipped his Craig. "We find a way to kill Metatron-"

"Metatron?" she asked surprised. "What has he done to you?"

"I have a bone to pick with him, that's all."

"You make it sound like he took your candy."

"Something like that. Would you like to let me finish, or do you actually enjoy staying in that trap?" She rolled her eyes. When she didn't say anything more, he continued. "Anyway, our mutual desire to see Metatron dead should be tickling your fancy. I'd even let you do the honors with the torturing."

"Unlike you, I don't torture for the pleasure of it."

"Keep telling yourself that, love. Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes. So, we get Metatron out of the way, and we keep Abaddon from taking over Hell." He saw her open her mouth to speak, but he interrupted. "And before you ask why a pure, innocent being like yourself would ever get involved in a fight over Hell, let me remind you that Abaddon has a special hatred of angels and plans to make you and your little winged friends bow to her. I don't mind angels, as long as they stay out of my way. Right now, she's in Hell drumming up support for her pathetic cause. If she manages to take over Hell, you and your comrades will be her bitches. Eternity is a long time, and just between you and me, I don't think being someone else's bitch is a position in which you'd flourish."

"Let me see if I'm understanding you correctly...you want me to be your bodyguard?" She walked around the circle with her hands clasped behind her back. Now it was her turn to be amused.

"It sounds so indelicate when you put it that way."

"You are indelicate, so it's fitting."

"Help me defeat Abaddon, and I will give you my word that as King of Hell, your angels will be off Hell's radar. That is, unless they do something to piss me off, which they usually do." He eyed her pointedly and took another drink of his Craig. "We get rid of Metatron, and the angels get to return to Heaven. Tell me, which part of this sounds unappealing?"

Naomi walked a bit around the circle, then looked at him to ask, "And why should I trust you?"

"What makes you think you have a choice?"

"I want a guarantee, and your word isn't good enough. A demon's word is as good as a nest of wasps." She knew she had no other options. Crowley was holding all the cards to her fate, but she had to extract some sort of guarantee from him that he wouldn't pull any tricks or double-cross her, as was a demon's nature. And Crowley was as dangerous and treacherous as any ten demons. He was, after all, the King of Hell. It was ludicrous that she even consider a promise from him as binding. As if he would actually follow through on it! The thought of it was laughable.

"I see the wheels turning in your head," he said as he got up from his chair and moved closer to the fire. He stood within reach of her. "If you're worried about any kind of dodgy promises from me, perhaps we can make a deal in the usual way. That way, we both hold up our sides of the bargain. When it comes down to it, I don't trust you any more than you trust me."

"I have never given you any reason to distrust me!" she exclaimed angrily.

"Really? Remember the time in Greece—"

"Oh, not that again!" she shook her head and rolled her eyes. "I told you, I—"

But he held a hand up to stop her. "No matter. We will never see eye to eye on that—"

"Because you're stubborn and unyielding! I explained everything!"

"And a tidy explanation it was. Sorry, sweetheart, I didn't buy it then, and I'm still not buying it. I've been screwed over by angels in the past. And you're an angel; therefore I don't trust you." He grinned. "I know you have your little secrets, Naomi. I'm going to find out what they are before this is all over."

She was instantly taken aback, but retained her composure. She didn't want him to think he'd succeeded in striking a nerve. Observing him critically, that cocky attitude and smug face of his told her that he wasn't bluffing. What could he possibly know? How could he possibly know anything? He was Crowley; he was likely trying to play mind games with her, distorting the truth to his advantage for the sole purpose of getting her to agree with any type of deal he felt like offering. Her vessel's blood boiled with swelling rage. He was deceitful, underhanded, beguiling...

"Fine. Write up a contract," she acquiesced bitterly.

"You mean a paper contract that we have to sign? Don't want to seal a deal the traditional way?" He wriggled his eyebrows, making her want to slap him.

"You're despicable."

"It would save us time. I promise not to bite this time."

She gave him her most withering glare. "I have an indescribable urge to smite you right now."

"Do you? Save it for the bedroom, love. Nothing like a little smiting to fuel the passion between the sheets."

He looked too pleased with himself when he saw that he'd managed to make her blush. She hated him all over again. "Just make up a contract and I'll sign it. After reading it, of course."

"Of course. The thorough, meticulous bureaucrat wants her contract. You pore over paperwork like other people look at nudie magazines."

"I am not a bureaucrat!" Her eyes once again glowed and her wings flapped, sending a gust of wind throughout the room, though sadly not making as much as a dent in the fire that encircled her.

"Oh, put those things away!"

"Just make the contract. And make sure every I is dotted and every T crossed or I will make you rewrite the entire document. Do I make myself clear?"

"Er, one more thing, love."

Now she was the one becoming impatient. "What is it?"

"Well, as I mentioned, I don't trust angels. I need further insurance that you're going to keep your end of the deal."

"That is preposterous! That's what the contract is for!"

"Yes, but seeing as you don't have a soul for collateral, I'll need something else to bind you to the agreement." He walked the circumference of the fiery circle before finishing his thought, which annoyed Naomi. "I want your grace."

"Absolutely not." She shook her head and paced back and forth in her enclosed space in a frenzy. "That's a ridiculous request. Insane!"

"I'm playing with fire! Surely, you can understand that I don't want to get burned. I don't want to risk you disappearing or conspiring against me at any point."

"You're expecting me to be like you, and I'm far, far from being like you."

"Right. Here's a newsflash. Just because you preferred the sanitized fluffy white cloud in the sky over the pit and racks doesn't make you the righteous creature you think you are. You'll do anything to get what you want and woe be unto the person that gets in your way, sweetheart," he laughed.

"That's not true," she hissed, baring her teeth.

"Drop the pretense." He sounded somewhat admiring and amused at the same time. "Look, I appreciate the fine skills you've sharpened over the past millennia. Why do you think I chose you and not some other incompetent angel? Now, as for your grace—"

"I won't give it to you," she fumed.

"Remember what I said," he retorted. "I can have an angel brought here at the merest snap of my fingers. Oh how the screams would be music to my ears..."

She mulled it over crossly. She couldn't let him torture her own kind. It was her duty to protect them. She would have a chance to ensure their protection for all of time if she and Crowley succeeded in their mission. There was a possibility they could return to Heaven if they were successful. It was her duty as a leader, as a warrior. Crowley only saw her as a mindless bureaucrat. She would show him.

Of course, this was all contingent on Crowley keeping his end of the deal.

Just as he raised his fingers to snap them, Naomi spoke up. "All right. I will offer my grace as insurance. But how can I help you if I'm human?"

"In times of peril, it may be necessary to return your grace for a short period of time. If that does happen and you break the deal during that time, your angels die. I will come after you, and you'll wish you were dead. I can promise you that."

"All right. Contract first, then if everything is agreeable, I'll give you my grace." Though the situation was far from ideal, she had no choice but to trust Crowley. If she were being honest with herself, the whole thing felt like a death sentence. She was no stranger to death, having been dead less than a day before thanks to Metatron, but she'd like to avoid being dead again, if at all possible. She had responsibilities to attend to.

Crowley disappeared, probably to make up the contract. He returned so quickly, though, that she was suspicious.

"Simply sign at the bottom, love." He held up the contract and handed her a pen.

"I don't think so." She took it out of his hands and began unrolling it.

"Don't tell me you're actually going to read it?" he scoffed incredulously.

She gave him a look that said she was going to read every single word. Twice.

"Bureaucrat," he muttered under his breath. He sighed and found a chair as Naomi began reading. She took her time and resisted being rushed by Crowley's sighs and grumblings. About three-quarters of the way down, she came to a clause that made her look up in irritation.

"What?" Crowley asked.

"I am not sleeping with you 'in the case that we find ourselves in a situation in which there is no way out but death and the death is final with no chance of returning in either a corporeal or spiritual form, or if the Earth should be on a course toward imminent demise that is final and irreversible.'"

He shrugged. "You can't blame a man for trying."

She primly marked through those lines and kept reading.

Finally, after marking the contract with her changes, she paused briefly to contemplate the matter. She tried to convince herself that what she was doing was the right thing to do, that her actions and decisions were in the best interest of the angels. Any nagging doubts were pushed from her mind. There wasn't time to waste on them. If she was going to go through with this, she needed to be totally committed.

And there was no other choice than to be totally committed.

Sucking in a deep breath, she wrote her name on the line and handed the contract back to Crowley. There was no way of backing out now. He took the pen and wrote his name beneath hers, and once he was finished, a demon was summoned to fetch it.

"Now, sweetheart, there's the little matter concerning your grace..."

"Yes." She inwardly flinched. Her grace was her essence and without it, she was a mortal, susceptible to the same diseases and weaknesses that befell them. Without it, she was no longer an angel.

Taking a knife and vial from his jacket pocket, he proffered them to her, his arm extended over the fire. But she shook her head.

"To remove one's own grace is the greatest sin one can commit. I cannot—will not—agree to that. If you want it, you will need to take it from me."

"You angels and your trite rules." Snapping his fingers, the fire ring immediately vanished and he approached her. She tilted her head back, swallowing back her humiliation at this act of submission to a demon. Raising the knife to her throat, he paused. Naomi searched his face. Was it resistance that she saw? Repulsion?

Slowly, he drew the knife across her throat, making the wound deep enough so that it created a gaping hole. Her grace pooled at the opening, a phosphorescent substance that stood out in sharp contrast from the blood that trickled out. Stoically, Naomi didn't move nor make a sound. Crowley swiftly captured the substance with a vial, and it was all over.

The sudden absence of her grace left her feeling strange. In a swift moment, her legs buckled and she felt as weak as she did when she awoke at the crossroads earlier that day. Lightheaded, she collapsed, but Crowley reached out in time to catch her.

"How does it feel to be mortal?"

"Unimpressive," she mumbled.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. It's not forever. Besides, there are certain things that are much better when you're mortal."

She swore she could see a salacious gleam in his eyes, but she felt too poorly to care.

With the snap of his fingers, they were in a bedroom upstairs. Crowley helped her over to the bed where she lay down, unable to do much else. She was conscious, but very, very drained. Another snap of his fingers healed the laceration at her throat. The pain from the wound she felt upon the loss of her grace was gone, which was a small comfort.

He held up the vial, illuminated by the angel's grace. "I'll be keeping this close to my heart." He tucked it safely into the breast pocket of his jacket. "Or, I should say, where my heart would be if I had one."

She snorted and felt her eyes closing against her will. It was a sensation she'd never felt before. How strange this all was.

"Well, you need your sleep. That's that thing humans do at night time in these contraptions that are called beds."

"Miserable termite..." she muttered as she drifted off to sleep, oblivious to everything in the world and all the planes beyond. It was a comfortable darkness that embraced her.

It was at least an hour before the miserable termite left her side.


	2. Everybody's Been Here Least Once Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Disclaimer: If I could make money from this, I wouldn't be posting it here.**
> 
>  
> 
> **Author's Note: This story hovers somewhere between canon and fanon. While I make a solid effort to align the story with facts from canon, well, sometimes fanon takes over and makes me do naughty things—like putting Crowley and Naomi in a story together.**
> 
>  
> 
> **Chapter title comes from the Kings of Leon song _Beautiful War_.**

 

 _So this is what being human feels like_ , thought Naomi as she gradually awoke from the nothingness of sleep. Angels didn't sleep; there was no need. In that first minute of wakefulness in which she began gathering all her senses back to her, she thought about little things she was sure most humans took for granted at the dawning of each day: the softness of the bed, the inability to think completely clear, and having to stretch to rouse the body from its dormant state. Exploring her new humanity, she gave her leg an experimental stretch and even wiggled a big toe.

Then she heard someone clear his voice.

She opened her eyes and saw Crowley sitting in a chair across the room, looking at her with a most bored expression.

Suddenly self-conscious, she sat up against her pillows and sharply asked him, "How long have you been sitting there?"

"Ah, grumpy this morning, are we?" he retorted. He was agitated by something, she could tell. It was in his demeanor: the subtle shifting of his eyes, the stiffness of his body.

"What do you want, Crowley?" She pulled the blanket tightly around her midsection and noticed she wasn't wearing the clothes she fell asleep in. It was a nightgown...made of very silky, white material...with thin straps. The sight of her bare arms and exposed shoulders caused her cheeks to flush.

Crowley noticed her embarrassment. He rolled his eyes and walked over to the bed. "Naomi, you are such a prude."

"Did you do this?" she shot back accusingly.

"You couldn't very well sleep in that thing, could you?" He eyed the suit that was draped over another chair.

"Yes, I think it would've been entirely possible! How dare you! I—"

He held his hand up to stop her. "Listen, I would love to stand here and argue with you, but I have more important things to do. Namely, find out what Abaddon's plans are for the immediate future. I suggest you get over this modesty streak of yours and meet me downstairs. NOW."

With that, he disappeared. She hated when he did that.

After fumbling through a few supplies in the bathroom, she freshened up as best she could, dressed, and joined Crowley in the kitchen. There was another feeling gnawing at her. It seemed centered in the pit of her stomach. These human attributes were definitely going to take some getting used to.

She approached him. "Before we start talking about business, I need to eat. And I need to eat now. It seems very urgent."

"I can't believe this," he sighed.

"If you're going to keep my grace, then you'll have to concede that I'll be functioning as a human and have needs that must be met. So, keep your sighs and your eyerolling to yourself," she snapped impatiently, frowning at him.

With a snap of his fingers, a plate of food appeared on the kitchen table. She eyed it in suspicion a good moment before having a seat. "It better be good."

As she cautiously began eating, yet another foreign experience for her, Crowley filled a glass from the bottle of Craig he'd simultaneously snapped into existence.

"It's a bit early to be drinking, don't you think?" she asked.

"Who are you, my wife? I don't need your permission to drink!"

"The best laid plans aren't made while one is intoxicated."

"Tell me, when was the last time you were intoxicated?"

"I have never been intoxicated!" The mere thought scandalized her.

"Then shut up." He down one glass and poured himself another. "My boys captured a couple of demons last night. I don't recognize them; of course, there are so many in Hell it's impossible to get to know everybody."

"I'm sure."

"Word of mouth is they're a couple of recruiters. They report to someone who reports directly to Abaddon. I want to know how many people they've recruited and the name of their supervisor, so to speak."

"And you'd trust what they'd say?" she asked skeptically.

"You of all people should know that people will tell you almost anything in the throes of torture-truths, lies, and everything in between. Don't worry, I sharpened my knife collection in anticipation of this," he smirked.

"You're depraved. Did you ever think that maybe we could get the information we want without resorting to such brutality?"

Crowley looked at her as though she were crazy. "They're DEMONS. You don't negotiate with demons! You slice off body parts and stab them until they tell you what you want. Then you do it again. The first time for information, the second time for fun!"

"Why on earth would you do it for fun?"

"Because we're bloody demons! It's what we do!" A little vein in his forehead looked ready to jump out of his skin.

"Right. Well, I would like to try reasoning with them first before resorting to violence. Also, maybe you should go easy on the Craig, dear. You look a little ill."

"I should've killed you when I had the chance yesterday."

"Yes, but what would've been the challenge in that? That's not your style, Crowley. You don't like easy; you like the chase."

"And what do you know about the chase, love?"

Smiling saucily, she replied, "You like to conquer and dominate. Easy prey doesn't interest you." She finished her breakfast and led the way toward the basement where the demons were being held captive.

He stood up, too, and followed her only too closely. She could feel him against her back. It was like an electric current had just shot through her. "You're wrong. I'm the King of Hell, darling; all prey interests me."

 

* * *

 

The two demons, whose names were revealed to be Nadia and Jonas, were strapped to chairs in the shadowy, dingy basement. Crowley walked back and forth between them, his hands clasped behind his back. He had a finesse about him; he carried himself too casually for what he had in mind for them. Naomi stood quietly in the back of the room, nearly out of sight. Her eyes never left Crowley. He was talking to them in that smooth voice of his, providing them with an elaborate outline of what was going to happen as if he were describing the weather outside. He described all the devices he had with utmost pride, even holding a few of them up for Nadia and Jonas to see. She could tell he got off on their fear. Though their faces remained stoic, Naomi could smell their fear, and she was sure Crowley could, too. He drew his energy from it. Sure enough, he shed the irritation present in his voice earlier that morning and filled the room with a voice befitting the King of Hell.

He started out asking them questions which they naturally refused to answer. They might be grunts for the higher ups, but they weren't going to simply roll over. Crowley hated to get his hands dirty, but torture was his specialty. He gleefully pulled up a chair and reached for one of the sharp objects at his disposal. The demons braced themselves for the pain.

Just as Crowley raised a knife, Naomi stepped forward. "Perhaps there's a better way to get the information we need. Your methods are...primitive and bloody, at best. You demons sure like to leave messes, don't you?" She observed him disdainfully.

Crowley turned and shot her a most reproachful look. She ignored it, sighing inwardly at his unapologetic debauchery. She was glad that she'd never sunk as low as to consider slicing and dicing flesh a form of entertainment. Her methods were specific and exact, and used for the sole purpose of garnering important information. She was fair, that is, unless the other party refused to cooperate. And she gave them many chances to do so! Then, well, she had to take matters into her own hands and extract information using whatever means necessary, typically with one of her tools. She didn't inflict senseless pain or injury, but some information was so vital to obtain that sometimes she had no other choice than to take drastic measures. Castiel was a good example of this.

Jonas darted his eyes from Naomi to Crowley. "What does she mean, 'you demons?'"

Before allowing Crowley the chance to respond, she approached Jonas. "We would like some information from you. You see, I don't like these... _barbaric_ methods." She found herself next to a tray of Crowley's torture devices. With a subtle deliberation, she ran a single finger down the cool length of one of the metallic instruments that lay there.

"Hey, bitch, you didn't answer me. Who are you?" Jonas struggled against his bindings, angry at being bound and angry at Naomi for not answering his question.

With a calm countenance, she answered him, "My name is Naomi." She lifted a tool and held it up to her face, studying it intently. "Jonas, we can do this my way or Crowley's way. You can answer my questions without my having to resort to measures neither of us would find too comfortable, or you can resist and see what methods I have of getting what I want." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Crowley raise his eyebrows in interest.

"And why the hell would I cooperate with you? I've dealt with Crowley's bitches in the past, and I made it out without a mark on me. So, I'm sorry if I don't give a shit about what you're threatening to do to me." He grinned, showing his yellow teeth which were arranged in two imperfect rows in his mouth.

Naomi gave a small, indulgent smile. She felt Crowley's eyes on her. A little sideways glance revealed that he was watching her intently, an expression of intrigue on his face. She sat the instrument down and picked up another, a replica of her memory drill that she'd used on Castiel and Metatron. She hadn't expected to see it there among all the other playthings of Crowley's. Of course, she'd never used it on anything other than angels; not that she'd needed to. She wondered...

"Tell me who you're working for. I want the name of the person you report to."

Jonas snorted derisively, "Really? You think I'm going to give up that information just like that?"

Naomi moved closer to him until she was at his side. She held her drill eye-level to him. "This drill is something of my own creation. It's a memory drill of sorts. I use it on insubordinate angels to retrieve their memories. It's a useful tool when an angel is suspected of engaging in behavior that contradicts his or her duties as an agent of Heaven."

"You fuck with angels?" Jonas's black eyes widened in alarm. "Who the fuck are you, lady?" He gripped the armrests of his chair until his knuckles went white. He struggled against his shackles.

Naomi prepared to insert the drill into his forehead. "An angel," she said impassively as she searched for just the right spot to insert it. "I would tell you that this doesn't hurt a bit, but it is not in my nature to lie. In fact, it will probably hurt a whole lot."

She pierced the skin with the sharp tip of the instrument, causing him to yell out. "Ok, ok!"

"Yes?"

"But if I tell you, he's gonna kill me! I can never go back!" He was panting and shaking, trying in vain to break the chains that bound him to the chair.

"If you don't tell me, you're going to be in a lot of pain and possibly die anyway." She inserted the drill even further, pushing past the bone, making the demon release a piercing shriek.

"All right, all right!"

Nadia shouted out, "Jonas, don't be an idiot! You know what he'll do to us!"

The insertion of a memory drill was quite a delicate procedure. It required precision and competence in order to glean the information she needed; any kind of error could result in immediate death. The further in the drill went, the louder he screamed until he was begging her to stop.

"Fine! His name is Agiel! His name is Agiel!" The name reverberated throughout the basement.

"What responsibilities has he given you and Nadia?" she asked as she continued. The screams were ear-splitting; Nadia was demanding he keep his mouth shut and not say anything more.

"Please! Please stop! He'll kill me!" But Naomi paid him no heed. She acted like she didn't hear his wailing, his pleading, which she really didn't. She had a knack for tuning out extraneous noise. With the delicate task she was undertaking, one couldn't afford to be distracted.

Nadia refused to offer any information, but Jonas became quite forthwith very quickly as blood started streaming down his face. "He wants us to find the fallen angels and convert them!"

"Go on."

"They're powerful, even fallen. Abaddon plans on using them to take over Hell. She's going to make them bow to her one way or another, but she figures if they use her power for her, the easier it will be for her to claim Hell for her own," he hissed in pain then howled.

"You might as well kill us now, you angel bitch," Nadia seethed. "We can't go back; he'll kill us."

Naomi was shrewd, however. She could use these two for her own purposes. They were making contacts with angels, gathering them for Agiel. She could use them to gather the angels for herself. She needed to form a faction if she was going to fight Metatron. She would have her revenge on him; she would rectify the situation and reclaim Heaven for the angels. Plus, she had to prevent them from aligning with Hell out of desperation. It was her duty. This all seemed like a perfect way to achieve what she wanted.

Removing the drill from Jonas's head, she wiped it clean. "I'm not going to kill you."

"Please." Jonas's voice was ragged; sweat dripped down his face. "Whatever you do, it can't be as bad as what Agiel will do to us."

"No," she said as she turned to face them. "If you give Crowley your loyalty, in return he will give you protection. If you decide to stick with Abaddon, then you're on your own."

Crowley jumped up heatedly, "Wait a bloody minute! Who are you to be offering any kind of protection? Especially to these idiots!"

Naomi pulled him aside. "They have been making connections with angels!"

"I don't care about angels! I am more powerful than a bunch of annoying pricks with wings!"

She was becoming furious with him. Her eyes flashed. "Right now you don't get to be terribly selective about who is on your side and who is not. If we kill them, that's two less demons for Abaddon, but you've gained nothing. We can use them."

Crowley looked into the eyes as though he could read her thoughts. "You can't fool me, love. I know what you're thinking, what you're planning. And it has nothing to do with me. You're thinking of forming your own little faction of broken-winged pricks. To go after Metatron."

"I am not going to sit here doing nothing to help the angels while he sits in Heaven gloating over the fact that he expelled us all! Also, may I remind you that he tried to kill me?"

In the background, Jonas managed to wheeze, "See? I told you that bitch isn't right. A dead angel is supposed to stay dead!"

Crowley paced the floor, mulling over this preposterous and possibly very stupid idea. He didn't think much of the idea; she could tell it in his face. "Perhaps we could use them. Angels are arrogant bastards with a special talent for pissing me off, however," he paused, giving it more thought. "I don't like working with them."

"How ironic." She crossed her arms, waiting for him to continue.

"But they could be useful, I suppose. You could keep them in line, keep them from pulling their angel crap on me. Although, you give me more than enough trouble, as it is. I'm not sure if I want to deal with the repercussions of having a group of angels at my disposal."

"The angels aren't yours," she quickly replied. "They don't work for Hell, and they don't take orders from demons."

"Then why the hell are we having this discussion?" he blasted.

"They will take orders from me. They will remember their roles as warriors of Heaven whose job it is to guard humankind. We will not destroy Abaddon because you will it; we will destroy Abaddon because we will not bow to her."

Crowley looked weary all the sudden and rubbed his temples. "You give me such a headache."

"No, dear, that's the alcohol."

"Would you shut up?" he bellowed loudly, kicking a chair to the ground. He was certainly mad and almost certainly raving at this point. Naomi shook her head; he was making such an unnecessary spectacle. "You two!" He pointed at Nadia and Jonas. "You can have protection in exchange for your loyalty. But the first time you screw up, even for a minor infraction, I will make you wish Agiel had gotten to you first! Just try not to get us all killed; you think you can manage that?"

And then he disappeared. Naomi had no clue where he went, but she was glad he was gone. If he was going to act like a lunatic, he was better off gone until he calmed down.

"Hey, what are we supposed to do?" Nadia asked. "You can't just tell us not to screw something up and then not give us instructions. We're not idiots, you know. Fuck the King of Hell."

Naomi raised her eyebrows and rebuked the demon in her severest voice. "Enough. Say anything else of that nature and I'll send you back to the street and Agiel will receive instructions from me personally on where to find you. Do you understand me?"

The two demons glowered at her. They didn't like taking instructions from an angel.

"Now, do as you're told; we'll take care of Agiel. I want you to keep doing as you've been doing; gathering the angels. Tell them that Naomi sent you. They'll know who I am."

Reluctantly, they gave an indication they understood and disappeared just like Crowley. While the remaining demons congregated, she retreated upstairs. She had plans of her own to make.

Naomi passed the rest of the day formulating plans. Once, she'd tuned into what Dean Winchester had referred to as "angel radio." She heard the voices of her lost brothers and sisters; some were looking for vessels, and others were simply trying to find their way in this strange, confusing world. She listened for any news, but she was disappointed. The conversations she heard were so disheartening that she gladly tuned out again. Help was coming, as soon as she could gather a group of them. She wondered if there was a spell in the Angel Tablet that could help them. Naomi had never been a desperate person; it was in her make-up to be patient and to see things fully through. But being alone in the house with Crowley and his demon fiends had made her contemplate rash actions that she knew would undermine her plans. If only she had her grace.

She would just have to wait and be patient, as Crowley wasn't going to return her grace any time soon. Being patient was once easy for her, but now it seemed to have become more difficult.

The better part of the day was spent thinking of her revenge and of the angels' homecoming. Time seemed to pass so quickly that at one point Naomi looked out the window and was surprised to see that it was sunset. The sky glowed amber, gold, and pink as the sun disappeared beneath the line separating the earth from the heavens. A feeling of amazement spread about her as she gazed upon her Father's creation. How special were these humans that her Father made all of this for them? To be human and to be able to behold such a sight, knowing that God made all this for you must be such a wonderful feeling. As an angel, she never noticed things like this. It hadn't crossed her mind to watch sunsets or sunrises and to think about how incredible they were. She hadn't seen the wonder in them until now. How absolutely breathtaking.

Once the sun had disappeared and darkness had engulfed the room, she stood up, having spent several hours bending over the table with her work. Her bones popped and her muscles were aching from ill-use. Being human was at times a very painful experience.

"You know, people are inclined to take warm baths as a way of relieving their aches and pains."

She was getting so used to his sudden disappearances and reappearances that she wasn't startled anymore when he appeared unannounced.

"You're back. Is your temper tantrum over?" she smirked.

"It wasn't a temper tantrum, sweetheart. I had things I had to take care of."

"It sounded like a temper tantrum to me." She began gathering her notes together.

"You should know. I've witnessed a few of yours myself. What are those?" He pointed to a couple of the notes still laying on the table.

"My notes."

"Notes? What kind of notes?" He moved closer to look at one, but it was quickly snatched up by Naomi.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" She picked up the last one and closed her file, tucking it safely under her arm.

"Naomi," he said warningly.

"They're incomplete and underdeveloped. Perhaps when they're more concrete I would be willing to share them with you."

"I'll just wait until you're asleep and look at them then," he sniggered. He was so pompous that she felt she was in danger of resorting to violence if he kept aggravating her.

"Don't test me, Crowley. You might have my grace, but I have my little tricks."

He was behind her as she climbed the stairs. "Oooo. In that case, sweetheart, I'll keep pressing my luck. It'll be just like the old days."

"You wish." She hurried to try and get away from him.

"It was almost like the old days today. Down in the basement, I mean. Of course, you are the stubborn, arrogant angel you always were and your methods are a bit too soft for my palate...but you were, admittedly...brilliant."

"Too bad I don't care what you think. I don't seek approval from demons."

"I'm not just any demon, Naomi. ... There was a time when people worshiped us. Not as demons or angels, but as gods."

"Blasphemy won't get you anywhere."

"Blasphemy? Blasphemy was forcing me to be subservient to the new one god; blasphemy was demoting me to a mere demon and throwing me into Hell! That was blasphemy!"

She smiled a little at that. "You never did get over that, did you?"

"No! Relegated to Hell, getting third-rate souls... And then you left me for him." He looked up toward the ceiling.

"I didn't leave you for him. The offer was too good. I got to be—"

"A bureaucrat! You got to be a bureaucrat!" he said as though he had a bad taste in his mouth.

"I am not a bureaucrat! I'm an agent of Heaven!"

He stood in the middle of her room watching her with his hands in his pockets. "A bureaucrat, darling."

Naomi wasn't sure why they were having this conversation or how it got started. It infuriated her. She loathed being called a bureaucrat. She did more than sit behind a desk. She helped souls on earth and guarded them in Heaven; she always tried to do what was right. He had no idea how hard her job was sometimes. Lately, it had been a nightmare, having to undo all the chaos and destruction he and his demons caused. She tightened her jaw and pursed her lips together. This conversation was over, and Crowley saw it in her face. His demeanor seemed to have softened, actually; it was more than a little disconcerting.

"Crowley, it's been a long day and I'm tired."

"If you want me to leave, then just say so."

"All right. Leave."

And he did. Just like that.

She kept mulling over their conversation in her head. There was something different about Crowley, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it. He'd always been a cocky bastard with a penchant for sadism; he lied, cheated, manipulated, and tortured for pure enjoyment. But when he'd talked of their time together back when they were gods, she couldn't keep from noticing a certain nostalgia in his voice. And Crowley wasn't one to feel nostalgic; it wasn't very becoming of the King of Hell. Perhaps it was brought about by his current struggle against Abaddon for control of Hell. Being usurped undoubtedly did a lot to contribute to the agitation she sensed from him.

Tired and aching, she decided to try Crowley's suggestion of a bath. Even if he was the one who suggested it, it did sound like a good idea. Slipping out of her shoes, she trekked into the bathroom, making sure the door was locked behind her, and began drawing a bath. The steaming water was inviting. It had been a long time since she'd last had a bath, she mused. She remembered Mesopotamia and how the heat of the day warmed the water of the Euphrates. Seemed just like yesterday. She would descend the river bank and let the warm water surround her. Once a week she bathed in the waters there, watching over her maidens who sent her prayers and offerings in return for her protection. It was there, she remembered, that she saw him for the first time, God help her.

Soon, her bath was frothing and foaming from the soap she'd dumped into the water. She wasn't sure what kind it was; she just knew that it bubbled and that pleased her. She'd sometimes heard humans talking about bubble baths. It never occurred to her to try one; once again, angels hadn't any need for that sort of thing. Reaching to undo the button at her neck, she turned to grab a towel and ran right into Crowley. She must've jumped a foot into the air.

"Get out! I'm about to take a bath." She kept her hand over the button at her collar.

"I can help you with that button, if you want." He grinned slyly and handed her a towel.

She grabbed it out of his hand. "I am perfectly capable of doing it myself."

"What's the fun in doing it yourself?"

Smarmy demon. She ground her teeth angrily, but she could feel her cheeks getting warm.

"Crowley, get out. My bath is getting cold. You have my grace and you have me trapped in this house. The very least you could do, you vile, repulsive beast is let me have my bath!"

"I love it when you get mad, Naomi. The way your cheeks flush and your chest heaves… I almost wish you still had your grace so you could threaten to smite me. We used to have such fun times doing that."

Picking up the nearest object she could get her hands on, she threw it at his head. He'd vanished, however, before it could hit him. It smashed into several pieces before falling to the floor. He made her want to scream!

She waited a few minutes just to make sure that he didn't reappear, then quickly undressed and sank into the hot bathwater. She was going to enjoy this bath if it killed her! The water swiftly began to work its magic and her body started to relax. The aches and pains from earlier dulled, and her mind released the tension that had built up over the past couple of days. _This is so nice_ , she mused. Closing her eyes, she drifted off.

"You know, the first time I ever saw you, you were bathing. In the Euphrates." She jerked awake at the sound of his voice. Crowley was sitting on the toilet seat surveying her. Thankfully, there were enough bubbles to keep her modesty intact.

"CROWLEY." In vain, she tried to spread a small washcloth over the bubbles to give herself an extra layer of protection. It merely caused him to laugh even more. He was delighting in this devilment (there was no other word for it!) entirely too much. Much to her chagrin.

"There's nothing there I haven't already seen, love. Remember the lovers who used to bathe one another in the rivers in Mesopotamia? You know...baths were meant to be shared." The way he looked at her with his eyes that were all the sudden hooded and darkened sent an involuntary shiver down her spine despite the hot temperature of the water. And it made her furious.

"Not this one," she snapped, trying to sink further into the water.

"But you have all that room." Oh, how she wished she could punch that mischievous grin off his face!

She deliberately stretched her legs out, almost filling the rest of the tub. "Then it's good I have long legs."

Leaning over the side of the tub, his mouth nearly touching her ear, he whispered in a deep, gravelly voice, "There was a time when I would spend all night kissing up and down those same legs."

She blushed as those wicked memories came flooding back to her. Before she could do or say anything, he was gone. Again. She was tired of these games; she knew he was just messing with her mind, intentionally trying to take her down a notch. The heathen. He had to strip her of her sanity somehow. He was the King of Hell, she reminded herself. He was going to do anything to get what he wanted. What he wanted, though, was becoming more ambiguous by the day.


	3. You're Going Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Title: Fallen**
> 
>  
> 
> **Rating: M – contains some violence, strong language, and adult situations.**
> 
>  
> 
> **Disclaimer: If I could make money from this, I wouldn’t be posting it here.**
> 
>  
> 
> **Author’s Notes: Chapter name come from the song _You’re Going Down_ by Sick Puppies.**

Years passed differently for angels than they did for humans.  For angels, a millennia passed as quickly as it took a shooting star to dart across the sky.  Events that transpired hundreds of years before were still fresh in their minds as if they'd happened only yesterday.  Memories never faded nor were they ever completely forgotten.  Since relinquishing her grace to Crowley, Naomi had struggled to manage without her powers.  She was essentially human, vulnerable to the same weaknesses of the mind and heart as the rest of humanity.  She discovered sleeping and eating; she discovered dreams.  Dreaming took some getting used to.  Dreams were vivid and so real.  Sometimes they were pleasant and nice; sometimes they evoked feelings inside her reminding her of things that had passed, things that as an angel, she wasn't supposed to be proud of.

When a dream troubled her, she usually tried to wake up, forcing it to an abrupt halt.  Too often, though, she found herself stuck in some sort of twilight between being asleep and being awake; unable to escape, she was forced to confront the unpleasantness her mind had conjured.  She dreamed of Metatron, of warring angels, and of something she'd gone to great lengths to protect.  It was a closely guarded secret that she'd remained quiet about for years.  With everything that was happening between the angels, as well as the demons, it was troubling that she should be dreaming specifically about this particular thing.  It was a source of much worry for her, and stayed on her mind quite frequently nowadays. 

During these frighteningly real dreams, she was nearly always vaguely aware of another person in the bedroom with her.  The inability to fully arouse herself from this state of sleeping purgatory did much to make her uneasy, and the feeling that someone was in her bedroom watching her didn't do anything to ease this notion.  By the time she actually awoke in the morning, no one was there.  She wondered if she'd just imagined it, perhaps it was an external manifestation of her own troubled mind.  There came a point when she dreaded sleep, and would try to find things to occupy her time to keep her from succumbing to her drowsy condition.  Nadia and Jonas, as well as the "angel radio," were full of bad news.  She'd heard about deaths of those she'd led and guarded and mentored.  While she wasn't one to be overly emotional and distraught at such things, it caused her to think of that which she'd always protected.  The state of things caused her much agitation.  It was difficult to find an outlet to work through such feelings (it was a surprise to her that humans could feel so... _deeply_ ).  She wasn't allowed to leave the house on the threat of death from the hellhounds that guarded it, which did much to limit her activities. 

Without a lot of options, she tried focusing on her work and often tuned into the angel radio.  For the first time in a while, she began hearing her name.  There was some doubt among the angels as to whether she was dead or alive, especially since the news that she was still alive had been spread by two demons.  Many of them paid no heed to these rumors, but the truly desperate who had once looked to Naomi for guidance readily believed Nadia and Jonas.  This plan of hers seemed promising.  It was imperative to work quickly; the angels, divided in two factions led by Bartholomew and Malachi, were brutally slaughtering one other.  The needless violence disgruntled her.  They were becoming as bad as demons.  Bartholomew had quickly proved himself unworthy of succeeding her as the leader of their faction.  She needed to correct that.

She worked as swiftly as she could, taking into account the current state of things.  All communication between Naomi and the angels went through Nadia and Jonas, who were proving themselves more competent than she'd originally thought.  She gave them orders, which they followed to the letter.  She didn't know if it was because they were scared of her or not, but they did show her some grudging respect at the very least.  They were still demons and she didn't trust them, but they had a decent working relationship.  After all, she was the only one standing between them and the wrath of Agiel.

As much as she worked on her plan to retake Heaven and to stop the bloodshed, there was only so much that could be done in a day, which left her with lots of time to fill.  Crowley kept her at arm's length and hid his own plans from her, something that caused her great suspicion.  Sometimes she'd go a couple of days without seeing him.  It was unsettling, but she was grateful.  They still bickered when they saw each other.  She'd never admit it, but to some extent, she liked it.  Until he took it too far.  When he got personal, she ceased being amused.  When his mouth came a little too close to her ear, her neck... When he would pin her against a desk or a table and look into her eyes... Her heart would betray her by thumping loudly.  She was sure Crowley could hear, and it never failed to send scarlet blushes onto her cheeks.  He enjoyed teasing her, she was sure of it.  Bastard.

To fill the unoccupied hours of the day, Naomi took up very human-like hobbies.  Like cooking.  It had become a specialty of hers, and she found she was quite good at it.  The five senses of humans aren't fully appreciated by angels as they have no interest in exploring them.  Their roles as agents of Heaven don't require full usage and appreciation of these senses; their grace gives them powers that compensate for these largely useless faculties.  Exploration of them could perhaps tempt an angel to rebel against his or her duties as set forth by Heaven.  Free will wasn't given to angels, and if an angel was busy finding stimuli to satisfy the cravings these senses would undoubtedly generate, it would interfere with their duties.

Naomi was human at the moment, however, and felt it was well within her right to explore these newfound sensations (for educational purposes), seeing how if she didn't find something to do in her spare time, she would go mad.  When Crowley was around, sometimes he'd conjure some delectable fare for dinner, making her taste buds sing.  She'd never experienced anything of the like before!  It made her wonder if she could perhaps replicate the dish and the taste.  So, she began combing over recipes.  She even sent demons to the store to fetch the ingredients.  Soon, she was cooking.  Of course, Crowley became suspicious and thought she was discreetly trying to make demon bombs.

One day, she was in the kitchen making dinner, solemnly combining her ingredients together when Crowley appeared.  He seemed to be in a foul mood, which was typical these days.  His mood hadn't improved any since that first week they were together in the house.  It had only gotten worse with Abaddon on the rampage, stealing his souls before their expiration date.  There was a lot of taunting on either side, and Crowley didn't take kindly to the fury with which Abaddon was trying to claim his domain.

"Chris tells me he had to go to the store for you yet again!  Second time this week, if I'm not mistaken."  He lifted up some of the little containers that littered the countertop and read the labels.  "So what are you making with ground mustard, cayenne pepper, and...garlic?  You better tell me you're making some kind of concoction to keep away vampires, because so help me..."

"Oh, calm down.  I've been cooking.  I have to do something while you're keeping me imprisoned here."  She mixed her ingredients in a bowl together, working very earnestly.

"Cooking?" he asked skeptically.  "Cooking what?  A spell?"

"Meatloaf."  She added the ground meat and began kneading.

"I'm sorry, I thought you said _meatloaf_."

"No, you heard correctly."

"Naomi...you are an angel.  You—you torture things, you control other angels, you're even giving orders to demons now... You don't make _meatloa_ _f_!"  Coming up behind her, he peered over her shoulder.  "That looks disgusting."

"You don't get to say anything.  You spend your day eviscerating people.  And this doesn't look a thing like entrails."  She shrugged away from him and went to put the concoction in a pan.

"Too bad, sweetheart.  I'm crazy for haggis, you know.  Reminds me of the fatherland."

"I'm sure you get a reminder every time you play with one of your demons.  Speaking of which, I want you to keep your demons in the basement.  I don't want them coming up here."  She checked the temperature of the oven and set the timer.

"Whatever for?  It gets crowded down there!"

"Then you'll have to take your torturing sessions elsewhere.  When those demons come up here, they track dirt and mud on the carpet.  They move stuff around; they break stuff.  This is why we can't have nice things," she frowned as she placed the pan of meatloaf in the oven.

Crowley paused for a moment and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.  "Naomi, have you gone insane or am I imagining things?  Are we really talking about tracking mud onto carpets and meatloaf?  Really?"

Naomi yelled, "What else am I suppose to talk about?  You keep me locked up in this house; you won't let me out.  I don't see anyone else except Nadia and Jonas occasionally.  I feel like I'm going crazy."

" _Going_ crazy?  Darling, you've already lost it," he laughed, then arched an eyebrow.  "Perhaps...some arrangement can be made for you."

Leaning against the counter, Naomi crossed her arms in front of her apron, oven mitts on her hands.  "No, thank you.  Favors from you come with a price."

"Well, I did start out as a crossroads demon," he slipped the mitts off her hands and tossed them onto the counter, then poured himself a drink. 

"You cannot keep me locked up like this," she said bitterly.  "You said we were going to work together to bring down Abaddon and Metatron.  So far, I haven't seen any results.  You don't let me in on meetings, you don't let me know what's going on, and I'm sick of it!"  She heatedly threw a dishtowel to the floor.

Crowley raised his eyebrows.  "Taking it out on the dishtowel?  That's unlike you, Naomi, to pick on something that can't fight back.  I'm disappointed in you." 

Something in her snapped and she grabbed him by the neck.  She wanted nothing better than to squeeze the life out of him, to see him gasp for air.  All the anger, annoyance, and frustration bottled up the past few weeks was coming to a head.  She wasn't used to feeling so helpless.  Though she was without her grace, her grip was still strong.  However, Crowley's was stronger.  He grabbed her arm, making her cry out in pain and causing her to release the hand at his throat.  He twisted it painfully behind her back.  Using his free hand, he picked up the dishtowel and flung it on the kitchen table.

"Naomi, I don't appreciate being choked.  If you ever try that again, one of my lowly demons will be mopping the floor with what's left of you."  With that, he let her go and straightened his collar.

She shook her arm where pain was pulsating in the spot where he'd grabbed her.  She hissed, trying unsuccessfully to keep the discomfort off her face.  Sighing, Crowley reached over and touched the spot.  Instantly, it felt better.

"I want my grace back.  Now!" she bristled.

"You know better than to make demands on me, love," he said mockingly.  "I'm not going to give it back to you.  Besides, after what you just pulled, why should I give you anything?" 

"What do you want with me?  Why am I here?"

He didn't immediately answer.  He took another glass from the cabinet, filled it with Craig, and handed it to her.  "Drink this."

She looked at it in his outstretched hand.  "No."

"Would you stop being stubborn and take the damn drink?  You're making meatloaf and beating on dishtowels, for pity's sake.  This alarming state of domesticity begs for alcohol."

Though dubious, she took the drink anyway.  She was tense.  Things had been prodding along slowly lately, and the cabin fever wasn't helping.  She downed the contents of her glass in one gulp.  It burned going down her throat, but it felt good.

"Good girl," he said in a most patronizing tone of voice.  "I've been thinking...maybe you should get out.  A little time away from the house may do you some good."

"I don't believe you. You lie." She helped herself to another drink. It felt like she'd been thirsty for years.

"Well, Naomi, when you figure that I'm a demon and that's what demons do, then it's really not so surprising, is it?" he smirked.  "Admittedly, I have business to tend to tonight."

"Then go.  You know, dear, your absence does make the heart grow fonder...for your continued absence, that is."

"Ouch.  And here I was going to suggest you accompany me on business tonight."

"Why would I do that?  I want to get out of this house, but not to watch you conduct the perversity you call business."  She turned around to wash her dishes in the sink. 

He had a habit of invading her personal space, a habit she hated, and he was doing it again.  She could feel him step close behind her.  She felt him against her back.  She saw his hands appear on the edge of the countertop on either side of her.  Damn him.  If it weren't for the angels, she would've hoped Abaddon annihilated him.  She probably would've even helped.  But here she was, a prisoner in her own home, so to speak, subjected to his lies and debauchery. 

His breath was hot on the back of her neck when he spoke.  His voice was deep and smooth.  "We would find time for other things, naturally.  I'm not all business, Naomi.  You, of all people, should know that all work and no play makes me a very dull boy.  And I loathe dullness.  I like a little work with my play.  That's why I'm King of Hell."

She swore she could feel his moist lips on her skin.  He was firmly against her back now; there was no room to move.  It was alarming. 

"Get away from me."  But it was more like a statement than a command.  Where was her voice?  It was failing her.

"Oh, Naomi," he chuckled.  "Don't think I don't know what I do to you, even after all these years.  I see your body react when I'm near.  I know you hate me with a passion, but I also know you enjoy it.  You're coming with me tonight."

"And what if I don't?"

That caused him to laugh loudly.  "Then I'll make you.  Also, you can't wear this where we're going."  She knew he meant her suit.

"There's nothing wrong with this suit," she said obstinately. 

"I've picked out something for you, something more appropriate for the venue where we're going.  It's in your bedroom.  And darling, do try to take the stick out of your ass tonight.  I know you're an angel, but technically you're human now, so try to enjoy it.  I'll be back for you in an hour."

Then she didn't feel him anymore.  Nervously, she turned around.  He was gone.  Her cheeks were burning.  She was actually shaking, but she wasn't sure if it was because she was mad or because she felt her modesty threatened.  What did he have planned for her?  Whatever it was, it couldn't be good.  With unsteady hands, she poured herself another drink.  Unfortunately, alcohol didn't seem to have much effect on her.

Venturing upstairs, she entered her bedroom and saw a red dress lying on her bed beside a pair of shoes and a few pieces of jewelry.  That impertinent demon.  Red, of all colors!  What would the angels think if they saw her out in red?  Shameful.  Only a King of Hell...  As scandalous as it was, she reminded herself that she was getting out of the house.  Maybe no one would see her; then they'd be none the wiser.

She slipped off her jacket, blouse, and pants, hanging them neatly in her closet.  With baited breath, she unzipped the dress and stepped into it, sliding it up until the thin straps hooked over her shoulders.  It fit her like a glove.  She was embarrassed to admit it, but she looked nice.  Very nice.  Vanity was a sin, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from the mirror.  The way the fabric hugged her skin felt good.  She took a secretive liking to the dress, though she wished she could hide her arms and shoulders.  It didn't seem right to be showing so much skin as an agent of Heaven.

Once she put on most of her jewelry and shoes, she gazed at her form in the mirror once again.  She had to confess that she liked what she saw.  Not that her standard suit was so terrible, but the dress made her feel, dare she say it, somewhat attractive.  And it worried her.  How far was she allowed to become human? 

As she struggled with her necklace, Crowley appeared behind her.  "Let me help with that, love."  Taking the necklace from her, he fastened it.  She felt his fingertips ghost across the back of her neck, sending a shiver down her spine.  Without warning, he took her hair out of its chignon, letting it fall down her back in waves.  "There.  Not bad."  He admired the reflection in the mirror before them.  "Angels shouldn't inspire such lascivious thoughts in demons, Naomi.  I should be thinking of fifty ways to break your neck."

"Don't think for a moment that I'm not having similar thoughts about you, Crowley," she scowled.  His reflection grinned.

"I like your hair down.  Remember when I used to wrap it around my hand—"

"If you're going to turn this outing into something tawdry, I will stay here."

Suddenly, they found themselves in the middle of a crowded street amid bright lights and lots of noise. 

"Welcome to Sin City, where all your vices are indulged with pleasure."  Crowley came up beside her and took her arm.  She tried to jerk it away from him, but he held on tightly.

"What are we doing in Las Vegas?"

"Poker tournament." 

He led them through the doors of the casino.  Apparently, he'd been here quite often as the guards knew who he was and let him through without a hassle.  Navigating them deftly through the crowds and slot machines, he found an open table and had a seat.  He asked for a drink and a chair for his guest. 

He turned to her and whispered, "Abaddon is all fury and no finesse.  She's going to implode.  Every demon in Hell will turn against her.  But before that happens, I hope to kill the bitch."  The dealer shuffled the cards and distributed them to the players.  Crowley looked through his hand and poured Naomi a drink. 

The game went on for over an hour.  Surprisingly, Naomi was very interested.  It was a game of strategy, so naturally it appealed to her.  She keenly observed the other players and followed Crowley's movements.  She poured him drinks and he shared with her secrets of the game.

One by one, the players folded until there was only one left.  Naomi thought Crowley's opponent, Mark was his name, looked a little too self-confident, and in honesty, a little too drunk.  He probably should have folded a while back.  The stakes were high and she was sure he didn't have enough for the bets he placed.  It troubled her.  The instinct to protect souls on Earth surfaced.

"Crowley, let him go.  He has a problem.  He can't help himself."

But he only grinned, "Why would I want to do that?"

"This is your business?  You disgusting—"  She started to get up, but Crowley waved his hand and Naomi was pushed down into her seat.

"CROWLEY."  She struggled to get up, but she was stuck. 

She saw him cheat.  How could he not, he was a demon!  Mark looked on horrified as Crowley revealed his winning hand, a royal flush.  Mark stared at his losing one, fear etched into his face.  Naomi knew at that moment what was going to happen.

"Well, Mark, you played a good game, a very good game, indeed.  I believe you owe me, oh, let's say an even $5,000.  I'll shave off a couple of hundred dollars out of consideration."

Mark swallowed.  He could barely look at Crowley.  "I—I don't have it."

"Don't have it?  What do you mean, dear boy, you don't have it?"  Crowley sat casually back in his seat, dreadfully amused and not at all surprised. 

"You heard me.  I have this watch; I paid a lot for it.  Look, you can have my car.  It's almost new."

"Crowley, don't," pleaded Naomi.  He ignored her.

"I don't have any need for your watch or your car.  I could have you jailed for this, you know.  I could ruin your life--have you lose your job, your wife leave you, your children look at you with disappointment in their eyes..."

Mark was whimpering; he was scared.  His body was visibly tense.

"I promise not to do this again.  If you would just let me go...I swear."

Crowley laughed manically; it made Naomi's skin crawl.  "Letting you go would be bad for business.  Ah, there is something I could use, though.  You're not completely useless."

"What is it?  Anything!"  Mark was desperate.

"No!" Naomi cried out.  "Mark, no."

Leaning toward Naomi, he hissed, "If you don't shut up, I'll strangle you myself."

"Is this what you do?  Prey on the weak?  You're disgusting!"

"And how do you propose I get souls?  Huh?  This moron knew what he was getting himself into.  I didn't _make_ him bet money he didn't have or play a game he couldn't win."

"I saw you cheat!"

"He would have lost anyway!  Now, Mark, where were we?  Yes, payment.

Naomi couldn't watch this happen.  It was contrary to everything she believed in; it was antithetical to her role as an agent of Heaven.  "Crowley, I'll play you for his soul."

The demon raised his eyebrows.

"My soul?" asked a wide-eyed, incredulous Mark.  "What do you mean, _my soul_?"

" _You're_ going to play for his soul?  What an interesting turn of events," he rubbed his beard.

She was determined.  "Yes.  If I win, he gets to keep his soul."

"And if I win?"

"You already have my grace.  What else do you need?" she asked irritably.

Crowley was calculating, just as calculating as she.  His eyes bore into her; they pierced her almost painfully, but she wasn't able to look away.  He had her.

"If I win, I get his soul...and you're mine to do with as I please for the night."

Her nostrils flared.  The surliness in his attitude was almost too much to handle.  The thought of him touching her made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.  But the thought of Mark losing his soul to the likes of Crowley made her feel worse, like she had failed what she was made to protect.  She was a warrior, with or without her grace.  Above all else, she had to keep Crowley from getting this poor man's soul.

"What would it take for you to let him go completely?"

"Upping the stakes, are we?"  He walked around the table once, dragging a finger along the edge.  "What if I don't want to let him go?"

"You have a price.  Name it."  She crossed her arms; she meant business.  It was no time for Crowley to be yanking her chain.

He stood before her, barely a couple of inches separating them, and spoke in a low tone, "If I win, then you're mine forever."

"I don't have a soul," she mocked.

"I'm not asking for a soul, sweetheart.  Just you."  His eyes raked her over from top to bottom and back up again.  It didn't bother her too much until she realized she wasn't wearing her usual suit.  She felt practically naked when she remembered what she was wearing.

Through clenched teeth, she spat, "I would help Abaddon kill you first."

"The boy is mine!" he barked, banging his fist on the table, causing the chips to clatter.

"All right.  Done," she quickly said before she could think about it any further.  She hesitated then grabbed Crowley's bottle of Craig and took a big drink before sitting down on the opposite side of the table.

"You!" he pointed at Mark, "You can go.  You can thank the beautiful, but stupid lady that you get to leave with your soul intact."

Mark wasted no time in bolting; he never looked back.  The dealer once again shuffled the cards and dealt them to Crowley and Naomi.  Crowley glanced at Naomi and laughed.

"You don't even know how to play.  I know for a fact this is your first time playing."

"And I know for a fact that you cheat," she drank from the bottle noisily.  She'd emptied over half of it in the past two minutes.

"Then why bother to play me?" he asked as he surveyed his hand with utmost deliberation.

"Just shut up and play."

If truth be known, Naomi didn't know why she'd upped the stakes.  They were no longer playing for Mark's soul; they were playing for her.  Perhaps she figured that Crowley would never let her go anyway; or maybe she simply thought of it as the right thing to do as long as she was saving a soul from Hell.  She certainly never had a martyr complex.  She wondered if it was the result of being locked away so long, looking for any reason to do what she was created to do.

Crowley taunted her all through the game.  She blocked him out, imagining him strapped to one of her chairs as she jammed a drill mercilessly through his skull.  Oh, how wonderful that image was!  She could hear his screams in her head and it was like a beautiful song.  It wasn't in her nature to enjoy perverse activities like torture, but Crowley shouldn't really be afforded the same consideration she gave to humans.  Even amongst demons, he was pretty horrible.  When mental images of drilling into his head weren't enough to block out his attempts to get a rise out of her, she envisioned all the things Abaddon could do to him.  It almost made her feel guilty to think of such things, but she stopped short of feeling such a way upon recalling that she was playing him for her modesty.  The wretch. 

Naomi was methodical in her approach to this game, more so than Crowley who treated it as some sort of sport.  It was the cockiness that allowed him to treat everything with annoying flippancy.  The sounds of the overhead music and the people coming and going were drowned by her concentration.

Suddenly, she took her eyes off her hand to ask for another bottle of Craig, sitting the now empty bottle aside. Crowley had bad taste in nearly everything except alcohol. The stuff was intoxicating, for lack of a better word.

He clacked his tongue and smirked as he took another card.  "I thought you said you never drank?"

"No.  I said I'd never been intoxicated."

"Developed a taste for Craig, I see."  He reached for the new bottle to refill his glass, but Naomi grabbed it first.

"Get your own.  This one's mine."

"Let me remind you that you stole my last bottle!" he huffed. "You're terribly ill-mannered, but I wouldn't expect anything less from an angel.  Especially an angel with a stick up her ass."

Her eyes were glued to the cards in her hand.  "Are you going to play or are you going to cry about it?"

Disgruntled, he waved a server over for a refill.  "You don't have any powers, you know.  If I were you, I wouldn't push your luck."

"You're not me, because if you were, you'd be better at poker."

"Naomi, you don't know poker from the angel tablet.  And you don't know that, either," he laughed and took a sip from his glass.

But in her hand, she held a royal flush.  It was a pity Crowley always underestimated her intelligence; not a pity for her, though.  Her smile reached her eyes first, piquing Crowley's interest.  Slowly, she spread her cards on the table for him to see.  One by one, he saw her cards.  One glance at his own cards and he threw his glass on the table indignantly.

"You cheated!" he jumped up.

"I did not!"  She was actually offended!  She was a leader a large faction of angels and an angel in one of the most important garrisons of Heaven!  _She did not cheat._

"You did cheat!  How else could you have beaten me?  You're not supposed to cheat, you feathered bitch!  You're a freaking angel!"  It was amusing to see him as mad as he was.

Calmly and primly, she said, "I didn't cheat."

"Like hell you didn't!  No one beats me!  No one!"

"I'm sorry, dear, but _I_  beat you.  And if we're being technical, I'm not technically an angel at the moment, either," she said as she turned the bottle upside down, enjoying a celebratory drink.

He got in her face and pointed a finger at her.  "You will be lucky if you're alive tomorrow!"  After toppling a couple of chairs and overturning a table, he stalked off, surprising Naomi.  He hadn't trusted her to leave her house, but here she was, alone in a busy casino.

Figuring she should at least attempt to find Crowley, because surely he wouldn't leave her there, she walked through the casino a couple of times.  Not seeing any sign of him, she went outside.  At least if he were watching her, the moment it looked like she was trying to escape, he would surface.

Nothing.

Walking a little ways down the sidewalk, her heels clicking on the pavement, she looked around for any sign of that vile demon.  Out of nowhere, from the darkness of an alley, she heard a loud commotion.  Turning into the alley, she heard a screaming match between Crowley and...she couldn't make out the other voice.  They were in a heated argument.  It wasn't until she got closer that she could hear what was going on.

Abaddon.

She'd found the King of Hell and she was intent on taking him out once and for all.  It seemed she'd been trying to find him, but he'd been laying low at Naomi's, guarded by sigils and hex bags, no doubt. 

"All the demons will bow to me, Knight of Hell to Queen of Hell.  Long live the queen."

"You are no queen, you foul whore.  You think demons will let you push them around just because you've declared yourself queen?  Ha!" 

Abaddon screamed a bloodcurdling scream and threw a punch, which Crowley blocked.  He grabbed her hair, yanking her head back with a snap, but she grinned and with a wave of her hand, sent Crowley flying into a wall.

"You can't even fight like a King of Hell.  Why do you think that is, Crowley?  Oh, maybe it’s because you're nothing more than a mere crossroads demon."  She sauntered over to him as he was picking himself off the ground.

"You'll burn!  There won't be a demon out there who won't be plotting your demise!" he spat, blood trickling down his face.

"The demons want a leader.  We're going to take what is rightfully ours.  No more making deals."  Abaddon cackled suddenly, "You're pathetic.  You're no more fit to be a King of Hell than a hellhound.  The hellhound might be more qualified, actually.  No more negotiating, no more compromising.  Best of all, no more contracts!  As Queen of Hell, all will bow to me.  Demons, angels...  Or they'll die."

"That's where you're wrong, Abaddon."  Naomi stepped into the thin strip of moonlight that blanketed the alley, bathing her in a ghostly light.

"Ahhh, Naomi, isn't it?  I remember you," she grinned maniacally.  "An angel!  Well, a former one anyway, from what I hear.  Get ready to bow.  Once I finish with Crowley here, I'll be coming for you.  I tell you what; I'll let you off this time.  Go on so I can finish the former King of Hell; we'll rendezvous at a later date."  She gazed at Crowley almost salivating, a glint of evil flickering in her eyes.

Crowley launched at Abaddon, sending her to the ground with a thud.  He delivered a kick to her face, but she only laughed it off and sent him flying into another wall.  A sickening crack of bones echoed in the alley.

"No one will listen to you, Abaddon!" he panted.  "They will resent you!"

Naomi started to go toward Crowley, but Abaddon held up her hand.  Taking her time and savoring every moment of it, she walked toward Crowley, obviously intending to kill him. 

Still sprawled on the ground, Crowley reached inside his jacket pocket and removed the vial which contained the angel’s grace.  She could see the bright blue matter encapsulated in it.  He struggled, but threw it to the ground in front of her.  The glass burst into several little pieces, releasing her grace, which snaked up and forcibly entered Naomi through her mouth.  She felt her grace restored as a sensation that felt like cold liquid shot through every inch of her vessel, invading every cell; she felt her face on fire with the glow of her power.  Her wings emerged in a stunning spectacle and expanded, showing off their enormous length.

Abaddon backed away, but Naomi ran after her and threw her up against a building, pinning her against the cold brick by her throat.  Her eyes burned blue and she could see their reflection in Abaddon's own eyes.

"I will kill you myself before any angel bows to you, Abaddon."

The demon struggled, kicking and trying to pry Naomi's hand from her throat.  She was choking.  Even so, she was grinning, blood dripping from the corners of her mouth.

Just then, three demons appeared in the alley.  The tried to run at the angel, but found themselves stuck in place.  Naomi used her free hand to keep them at bay.

"If you kill me," she gasped, "then my demons will go after that thing you care about so much, if you know what I mean."

Naomi was taken aback.

"You know what I'm talking about, don't you?"  Her labored breathing continued, as the noises in her throat became more urgent.  Naomi squeezed tighter; her eyes glowed brighter.

Abaddon continued in a strained voice, "If you kill me, those demons will destroy what you love most.  Yes, Naomi, we know your secret and we will use it against you."

The demon knew.  She somehow knew, and Naomi panicked.  Abruptly, she released her hold on Abaddon and the demon fell to the ground.  With a sinister smile, Abaddon slowly stood and backed away from Naomi.

"Don't do anything stupid, Naomi."

"If you do anything, Abaddon, I will find you and kill you.  You can count on it."

"That won't happen.  Like I said, you will bow to me, Naomi, or you will die.  By the way, what we were just talking about...your little secret?  I've just decided that I'd like to see you destroyed in the most painful way possible.  Boys, we've got some hunting to do."  She rejoined the demons and they promptly disappeared, sending Naomi into a frenzy.

She should've known Abaddon would lie!  There was no time to waste as Naomi felt the tears sting her eyes.  She tuned into angel radio as she went over to Crowley, who had gone unconscious.  Seeing how demons didn't usually pass out, she knew something was wrong.  Very wrong.  Everything had gone wrong in such a short amount of time.

She took them back to her house hoisted him onto the couch.  Kneeling beside his still body, she proceeded to heal wounds that he should have been able to heal himself.  Crowley shouldn't be fazed by a bullet, let alone being thrown around by Abaddon.   She ripped open his shirt and moved her hands over the bruises.  She could feel his injuries heal instantaneously; quickly, she moved from one to another, watching the discoloration and blood disappear as though they had never been there.  Crowley had some serious injuries, but once most of them were mended he awoke with a start, his eyes rapidly skimming his environment for any threats.

Naomi sank onto her knees.  Angel radio didn't provide any useful information.  It was mostly quiet.  Hanging her head, she felt tears burn her cheeks as they made their way down her face. 

"Naomi?" Crowley asked with uncertainty.  "What happened?"

Lifting her head and fighting back her tears, she replied, "Your injuries were too much.  You passed out.  I--I think you were dying."  That noticeably troubled him.  It would've troubled her more had she not had other things on her mind.

"Did you kill that bloody abomination?"

"No," she said, shaking her head.

"Bollocks!  Well, on the bright side, at least you saved her for me.  What an endearing gift," he sneered.  "Why the hell didn't you kill her?  You have your grace back!"

Unable to stop the tears anymore, she hung her head once more and let them flow freely down her face.  A silent stream made its way from each eye.  An awkward silence permeated the room.  She couldn't help it.  Nothing in Heaven nor Hell seemed like it could threaten this powerful angel and successfully deliver on said threat, but Abaddon dangled something precious in front of her, something she would die to protect.  Something more precious to her than the angel tablet.

She was typically so composed, so sure of herself.  Every decision was made with precision and care.  She was mostly utilitarian in nature, always thinking of the greater good, not afraid to make the tough choices.  She rose to battle with a steely grace most angels could only hope to emulate.  But she had one weakness.  Crowley saw that and instantly honed in on it.

"Naomi," he grabbed her chin a little roughly and forced her to look at him.  He'd never seen her in such a state; no one had.  As close as she'd come was when she had tried to warn Castiel and Dean of Metatron's plans.

"Crowley... I need your help."  Her face contorted and she wept openly.

"You're asking a demon for help, sweetheart?  Must be serious."

"I don't have time for your sarcasm."

"Yeah, and you lost me a soul tonight!  So, why would I help you at all?" he shouted.

She looked at him and simply said, "I saved you."

Sighing and rolling his eyes, he asked, "What is it?  Tell me what it is and I'll tell you yes or no."

"I—I need help finding...somebody."  She raised her chin, but didn't meet his eyes.  She couldn't.  They were searching for something.

"And who might this somebody be?"

With trembling lips and a rediscovered guilt unfurling within her, she spoke in a broken voice.

"My daughter."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I love it when they bicker like a couple that's been married for 20 years. *sigh***


	4. Graceless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Title: Fallen**
> 
> **Rating: M**
> 
> **Disclaimer: Not mine...blah blah blah.**
> 
> **Author's Notes: Chapter title is brought to you by _Graceless_ , a song by The National.**

"Your daughter?" It was one of the few times Naomi had seen him speechless. Not many things took the King of Hell by surprise; actually, nothing took him by surprise, but she had apparently just made an exception.

"Crowley, there's no time to waste," Naomi pressed urgently. "Abaddon is looking for her. If she finds her..." She didn't want to think about what Abaddon would do to her daughter if she found her.

He got up from the couch with relative ease, even though he'd only been healed by the angel only a short while ago. Pacing the room thoughtfully, he mused aloud, "Why would Abaddon give a shit about your daughter? Why would she go out of her way to hunt down your daughter when there are, pardon me, more important things for her to do?"

Naomi shook her head and swallowed, "I don't know! I threatened her; she was mad. She said she'd destroy me. Perhaps it's retaliation. Look, I don't care why Abaddon would go after my daughter; I just want her safe. I want to find her before Abaddon does."

"All right. I'll make arrangements to have one of my boys go for her."

"Absolutely not. I'm not entrusting the safety of my daughter to your inept demons. I'm going for her myself." Naomi determinedly walked past Crowley toward the door, but he reached out and grabbed her by the arm. She struggled with him, trying to get him to let go.

"You're not going to do that. Don't forget you have a contract with me, love; I'm not going to let you walk into a death trap. Besides, Abaddon will have someone tracking you. Do you really want to lead her straight to your daughter?"

"Let me go!" she shouted, anger prickling her face like needles. She beat a fist against his chest. "You cannot possibly expect me to sit here when my daughter is being hunted by that heinous creature!"

"Why yes, I do expect you to stay here. You're going to stay here and let me take care of it." His grip on her tightened and he caught her flailing fist with his other hand, holding it firmly so she wasn't able use it against him.

"I can't believe it! No, actually, I _can_ believe it. Demons are all the same. You're all despicable monsters, abominations that should be locked up in Hell forever! You are no different, no better than Abaddon, and I loathe you! Oh, I understand it all now. You only want me around to keep you safe in case she shows up again, like she did tonight. The next time she does, I won't save you. I'll stand over you and watch you die. Happily!" Her chest was heaving with disgust; fury rolled off her in waves.

Crowley stood in place quietly, his face unmoving and impassive. Finally, he spoke, and when he did, there was no sarcasm or biting edge to it, only a dark, ominous smoothness. "There are sigils in place to keep you in this house, so any escape plans would be pointless. If anyone is going to kill you, darling, they will have to stand in line behind me. I didn't bring you back from death to feed you to that whore."

She was shocked and the incredulity spread across her face as that fact sunk in. Stupefied, she stumbled backward. "You? You did that? But why?"

"You've already answered your own question," his eyes flashed and his tone became more cutting, "I found myself in less than stellar condition. Naturally, I needed someone like you with your powers around in case things got...unpredictable. I just use you like always; you said it yourself in Mesopotamia and Greece and everywhere else we've had the gross misfortune of crossing paths. I'm a demon, sweetheart. I take all that I can get. You're nothing but a cold bitch, and it pleases me to no end to see you at my behest, knocked off the pedestal you think you stand on. You're the same as all the other arrogant, feathered pricks. Except I think it would be safe to assume none of the rest of them ever had a demon inside them. That not only makes you an arrogant, feathered dick, but a hypocritical, arrogant feathered dick.

He didn't look surprised when she slapped him hard in the face. He didn't even move. Rubbing the spot where her hand had made contact with him, he roughly threw her down on the couch and stalked off to the basement.

She couldn't believe it. There were so many things to process in this one moment. Firstly and most importantly, her daughter was out there, unaware there was a very powerful Knight of Hell looking for her. Secondly, she finally figured out how she ended up at that crossroads alive after Metatron had stabbed her in the head. For his own sordid purposes, of course. It would have to be some sort of self-serving purpose for him to do something like that. How had she gotten herself into this mess?

Anxiously, she walked back and forth across the room listening to angel radio. Her daughter was warded against angels, for her own protection, however if Abaddon made any move, it was sure to be broadcasted. Ever since she'd been listening on a regular basis, Naomi had gotten the rundown of Abaddon's activities, from kidnappings to possessions to killings, and other acts of destruction. She was almost certain that if her daughter was taken by the demon, she'd hear _something_.

No one knew about her daughter; no one was ever supposed to know. Her daughter was, well, she didn't like to think about it, but her daughter would be considered an abomination by Heaven. The girl was a physical reminder of Naomi's foray into free will that was explicitly prohibited to her. Angels weren't supposed to engage in sexual relations and products of such fornication were exterminated without thought or consideration. Angels had one job and one job only. Naomi's job was to guard the souls of Heaven, though her position required her to do a little more than that, like protect the angels and see that Heaven was run as God had intended. Her job required her to give orders and supervise, and had become stressful since the angels had been fighting each other for control. But she had not wavered in her duties and responsibilities. She had successfully balanced work and motherhood these past few years and no one had been the wiser. She was discreet and lucky that she didn't have to answer to anyone in her job or work too closely with anyone else. It afforded her a lot of flexibility so that she could be a mother to her daughter. While angels didn't have the same emotional capacity as humans, when she thought of the child, she felt something wonderful-was that joy?

If anything happened to her daughter, she would find a way to annihilate Crowley. She would absolutely crush him. She didn't want to think of that right now, though. There was action to take. Nadia and Jonas had connections with some of Crowley's demons. And because she had a decent relationship with them, they would do what she asked of them without question. She would hang Agiel over their heads, if she had to. There were angels she knew to be on her side, that she could trust, but the sigils she had in place would prevent them from getting to her daughter. Why hadn't she thought to ward her against demons, as well?

As she was getting ready to summon Nadia and Jonas, another pair of demons burst through the basement door and came at her. Suddenly, she realized what they wanted.

"No!" She tried to use her powers, but couldn't. The house was indeed protected, as Crowley had warned her. She screamed, calling Crowley a coward and promising to destroy him, among other things. How could he do this to her? After everything, how could he leave her powerless to do anything to save her daughter?

The bigger demon grabbed her and held her arms behind her back while the other yanked her head back by her long hair. Quickly, he ran his sharp, silvery blade across her throat releasing her grace, which was caught in a new vial, and a steady stream of blood, which was collected in a second vial. Once it was over, she collapsed and they left her bloody and wounded on the floor.

* * *

He heard her infuriated screams upstairs as his demons acted on his orders. He supposed he should've done the deed himself, but he didn't care. She was acting like the bitch she was and he didn't care to be around her. Damn angels. They were all alike, the whole bloody lot of them. The only good idea Abaddon had, and he'd never actually admit it, was to make those winged fiends subservient to the ruler of Hell. Naomi stirred up all kinds of feelings in him, mostly hatred, disgust, and more hatred, and he enjoyed having so much power over her. He wished he could watch her writhe as her grace was ripped from her. Oh well, there would be other opportunities.

The smaller demon delivered the angel's grace to him, as well as a vial of her blood. The bright blue matter of her grace was bobbing around within its glass enclosure.

"I want you to trail Abaddon. Keep a close distance. I want to know where she goes and what's she's doing. And do try not to screw it up. I've had to do a lot of things myself lately due to a disappointing lack of competence. I'm already in quite a foul mood, so I suggest that you try not to get yourself killed."

The demon curtly nodded before disappearing with the second demon, leaving Crowley alone in the basement. Sitting behind the desk in the office he'd set up there temporarily, he opened a drawer and took out a chalice along with a pouch containing various ingredients he needed for a spell. Naturally, he preferred a nice, quiet office upstairs away from the rest of his idiot demons who did their dirty work in the basement, but that idea had been instantly dismissed by Naomi.

"This is my house and I don't want any demons up here messing it up! You can have the basement. After all, you should be used to existing below everything else."

Self-righteous hypocrite! If heaven knew half the things they'd gotten up to during their times together, she'd have her grace permanently stripped and the feathers on her wings plucked off one by one. Well, before Metatron kicked them all out of Heaven, that is.

That bastard was on his list, too. Because if anyone was going to kill Naomi, he had won the right to do so long ago, not some third-rate angel. Scribe of God...ha! Crowley wasn't even sure Metatron could read. He even cast a doubt on the angel's sanity. To be quite truthful, he'd never met an angel that was sane. Castiel was probably the most cuckoo of the bunch, but a lot of that was due to a pair of thorns in his side called Winchester. Michael was all drama and an idiot. Gabriel was an ass. Raphael had been so far up his own self-important ass that Crowley avoided him at all costs. And now he finds out that Naomi has a secret child. Granted, he hadn't seen her in a while, but you'd think knowledge that like would make the rounds. He wondered who'd been poking her in the sexy way.

His wrath now elevated to an alarming degree, he tore open the pouch and began mixing the ingredients, reciting Enochian phrases over the mixture. It wasn't clear exactly why he was doing this. What did he care if the child lived or died? The angel child. Or whatever it was. Who knows who-or what-had knocked up Naomi. The ingredients began to glow and he added Naomi's blood, turning the mix bright red, making it glow even brighter. Holding the vial of grace over the chalice while stirring the blood with his finger, he chanted the phrases over and over again, each time becoming more urgent than the last. Bit by bit, tiny pieces came together to create a kaleidoscope of an image. He gazed into the swirling blood until he could see the child and discern from her surroundings where she was located. It wasn't easy and took several minutes as the image wasn't clear. A nearby landmark gave him the information he needed, however, and in less than a couple of minutes, he had cleaned up and appeared in front of an obviously startled child.

Quickly surveying the sickeningly cozy house, he finally took a good look at the girl, who was much younger than he'd imagined. She was oddly plain-looking and scrawny, with dark brown hair and set of too-large, too-wide blue eyes. But he supposed it was because she wasn't expecting visitors, least likely the King of Hell.

He hoped she was an absolute brat and that she caused her mother many moments of painful exasperation.

"You're Naomi's daughter? I thought you'd be older," he said, assessing her.

The child jumped up and gawked at him. "How did you do that? Who are you? And how do you know my mother? You've seen her?"

"Come again?"

"Am I going to have to repeat everything I say to you?" she sighed and crossed her arms impatiently.

Holy mother of sin, this child was like her mother. He was going to have trouble out of her. "Demons can appear whenever they want to, wherever they want to."

"Demons aren't real," she said in a very matter-of-fact voice.

Unbelievable. Did Naomi not teach her daughter anything? "If I'm not a demon, then how did I just appear out of nowhere?"

She thought about it for a moment. "You got me there. I don't know. But demons aren't real. Ok, now answer my second question. Who are you?"

"The King of Hell."

"The what?" she giggled, showing a gap between her two front teeth.

"Think it's funny, do you? I am king over a domain of demons and troubled, wayward souls. A little respect would be nice," he puffed. This kid was starting to get on his nerves.

"Well, what do I call you?"

"Mr. King of Hell."

"I'm totally not calling you that. Firstly, I'm not allowed to say the H-word, and secondly, that just sounds silly. Try again."

"Fine," he rolled his eyes. "Call me Crowley."

"Ok, Mr. Crowley. Now, third question. How do you know my mother?"

He thought the answer "biblically" wouldn't have been inappropriate, so instead he told her briskly that he'd known her for a long time.

"But she's alive?" She donned the same wide-eyed expression that greeted him.

"Unfortunately, yes, though looking back on it, I think it was a mistake."

"I'm so glad! Julia and I thought...well, Mama always said that if she didn't come home for a while, that she had to take a very important trip, but not to worry. She's had to take trips before, but never for this long."

"Who's Julia?"

"My nanny. She stays with me when Mama is gone."

He really didn't care to hear her life's story. His goal was to fetch the kid and return her to her mother; he had no interest beyond this. "Yes, well, we must be going. Hurry up and get some things you'd want to take with you. And don't be long about it!" The thought of Abaddon showing up unannounced did make him slightly nervous when he recalled what happened earlier in the evening.

"You haven't even asked for my name!" she cried indignantly.

"I don't care what it is. If I'm lucky, I won't have to use it," he snapped. There was no telling when demons would be arriving and he didn't want to be caught here arguing with a child.

"Why should I go with you? I don't even know who you are!"

"I told you who I am! Crowley, King of Hell! That's all you need to know!"

"No, it's not!" she crossed her arms obstinately. "You could be taking me somewhere to kill me! Or sell me on the black market! I'm a pretty cool kid; you could get lots of money for me."

He was getting a headache. "If I could sell you on the black market, believe me, I would. However, your mother would try to smite me and I'd really like to focus my energy on killing one enemy at a time."

"What does smite mean?" she asked, showing more much curiosity than he wanted to deal with.

"It means to...don't you know what your mother is?"

"She's a stock broker."

Crowley rolled his eyes and shook his head. Leave it to Naomi to pick the most boring profession ever as a cover. That angel sorely lacked an imagination, as did, unsurprisingly, all angels. They hadn't been programmed with any creativity.

"She's an angel. You know, the thing with wings and harps. Surely she's told you about angels."

"She has. She reads me stories about them sometimes."

"Well, she's one of them. Except she doesn't play a harp. She tried once, but it ended badly. She's tone-deaf, which automatically disqualified her from being a seraph." The image of Naomi flying around singing made him want to burst out laughing. Woman couldn't sing if her life depended on it.

The girl didn't seem to catch on to the joke and she didn't look like she believed a word he said.

"All right, look, you have two minutes to gather your things together or else we'll leave without them. I'm sure your mother will explain everything as soon as I gladly turn you over to her."

She hesitated but appeared to finally give in and listen to Crowley, however she continued to wear an expression of utmost skepticism. Before she could reach the staircase, in walked who Crowley could only surmise to be the girl's nanny, Julia. When her eyes suddenly became black, Crowley knew it was someone else, someone he slowly began to recognize. The girl noticed, too, and gasped when she saw her nanny's eyes turn. Immediately, he pulled the stunned child behind him.

"Hello, Julia...or should I say…Fiona?" he said.

The woman appeared startled. "My king...you live? Abaddon told us..."

"I know what she told you," he said irritably. "She lies. I am very much alive and she is not, I repeat, NOT the Queen of Hell. Where do your loyalties lie, Fiona?" He brandished his blade and heard the small girl gasp.

"With you, sir." She eyed the blade nervously.

"And what are you doing here? Acting on Abaddon's orders?"

"Yes, sir. She told us to find the child and bring it to her."

"Why is this child so important?"

"I don't know, sir. She said she was important...but she didn't say why," she added quickly as Crowley polished his blade with his handkerchief.

"It wouldn't be in your best interest to lie to me, Fiona."

"I am not lying, sir! I haven't alerted Abaddon to the child's location. I just got here."

"Very well. I'll give you a chance to prove your loyalty since you were always one of my more proficient demons. Tell the others that I still live and that I am fighting for Hell. Most importantly, tell them that Abaddon will burn. I will make sure of it. When I get a hold of her, I won't show that bitch any mercy."

"There are others who will want to know. Not all of us follow Abaddon because we want to. We don't have a choice."

"There is always a choice."

The demon looked properly chastised and didn't say anything else. She bowed and disappeared.

"What was that?" the girl exclaimed.

"A demon."

"So, they are real? You're really a king and everything?"

"Would you get your things together?" he asked her once again, his voice rising and his patience waning. "I have asked you two times now!"

"Sheesh. You're crabby!" she yelled as she ran up the stairs.

"Blah blah blah. I'm a demon, sweetheart!" he called after her. "We're not known for rainbows and unicorns."

As she got her things together, Crowley looked around the house. Pictures of Naomi with her daughter hung on the walls. It was all so sickly sweet Crowley thought he'd go into a diabetic coma. It was so rare to see that bitch smile he swore that her face would break if she ever attempted it. Though, he did remember a smile or two. Sometimes she would give in and smile in the throes of passion, when she let herself go. If only the other angels knew how sullied and unclean their no-nonsense leader was from fraternizing with demons. Well, one demon, as far as he knew.

The house was so 'normal.' Everything was immaculately clean, one of those houses that had everything in its place and a place for everything. He detested houses like that, and he couldn't wait to get out of it. He actually couldn't wait to get back to Hell. He missed the screams and the racks. But first he had to figure out what those Winchester boys did to him and find a way to undo it. He hadn't been the same since that fiasco in the church with Moose.

Ready to yell at the kid for taking too much time, she reappeared and ran down the stairs. "How do we get to where we're going?"

"You ask too many questions."

"Don't demons ever ask questions?"

"No. I'd kill them. And before you ask, angels don't ask questions, either. They do as they're told because they're idiots."

"See? My mother can't be an angel, because she isn't an idiot," she retorted primly. "So, is this like _Harry Potter_ where I have to touch your sleeve and then we apparate to where we're going?"

He had no earthly idea what she was talking about, but before the girl had any idea what was going on, she was in a different place.

* * *

Gradually, Naomi became aware of a slight weight against her side. As her eyes fluttered open, they were greeted by the morning sun. She gingerly touched her throat and found the cut gone. Turning her head, she saw her daughter in bed with her, sprawled out halfway on top of her. Her daughter!

"You have a lot of things to explain to her."

"What did you tell her?" she inquired softly as she ran her fingers through the girl's dark hair. Her daughter was safe. It was enough to make her immune to Crowley's unwelcome presence.

"Oh, the birds and the bees, angels and demons." He sat in the chair next to the window.

Naomi sighed, "She'd have to find out sooner or later. I'll talk to her today."

"Did she never ask why she could do things that other kids couldn't?"

"I—I bound her powers. I wasn't sure—I didn't...want other angels to find out about her. I knew they'd try to destroy her; I couldn't let them do that." Her eyes glossed over and a lump formed in her throat; human emotions threatened to consume her. "I bound her powers and took precautions, and I've never had any issues. I don't know how Abaddon found out about her."

"She has her ways."

Naomi turned to look at Crowley. "Thank you."

"Don't go getting soft on me."

"Did she give you any trouble?"

"Loads. She's already as difficult as you are. Asks too many questions..."

"Children tend to do that," she smiled.

"You know, I don't like this version of you. I prefer the embittered, hardened Naomi who would rather torture than talk." Naomi thought he seemed quite aggravated! She laughed.

"I'm not in the habit of torturing. I believe you meant to say _gathering information_."

"Semantics, darling. You gather information with a drill to the head. Call it what you want, but it's still torture." That made her bristle, which made him smirk

"By the way, now that there's an 11-year old living here, I would appreciate it if you refrained from talking about certain things in front of Zoë."

"Like mummy's torturing habit? My lips are sealed."

She became solemn. "I mean it Crowley. Keep your demons in the basement and don't talk about Abaddon, angels, or anything else in front of her. She's still so young."

"Don't give me orders, Naomi. I'm not one of your winged subordinates."

"And I know the real reason you're keeping me around, Crowley. You're just using me. You admitted it. Don't think I haven't forgotten. The least you can do is to avoid talking about things a girl her age shouldn't know about." Naomi gently extricated herself from her daughter, who was still fast asleep.

"Is that all?" he mocked.

"For now." She reached for her robe, slipping it on. Exiting the bedroom, he followed her down the stairs. She wasn't going to get away from him; he'd had enough of her pretentiousness.

Once they were in the kitchen, he unleashed a new round of venom. "You know, Naomi, it's just like you to give orders like I'm some bloody angel hanging around waiting to do your bidding. If anyone is going to give orders, it's going to be me. You're not sitting on your pretend throne on a fluffy white cloud anymore. You've fallen. And in so many ways."

"All I asked of you was to be careful what you say in front of a child. I don't understand why you're being such a—"

"—demon about it?"

Narrowing her eyes at him, she hissed, "If I infuriate your demonic sensibilities so easily, why don't you go and stay gone?"

"Because I love being the pain in your ass. Don't forget that I brought you back from death; I brought your daughter to you..."

"And I saved you from Abaddon!"

"Only because she threatened you! You needed me!"

Naomi balked, "I did not! I do not need you! The only reason I'm here is because you made me sign a contract! And the only reason I signed that contract is because you were threatening my angels! I don't _need_ you, Crowley."

He seized her by the shoulders and pulled her to him so that there was no room between them. He growled dangerously over the audible beating of her heart, which his touch accelerated. "If it weren't for me, you would still be in the nothingness where Metatron sent you. You would've left your darling daughter an orphan and defenseless to whatever Abaddon had planned for her. So, show me a little respect," he spat as he enunciated every syllable of that last word.

Her chest heaved into his uncontrollably. He'd pinned her against the bar, its cool edge digging into her back almost painfully. She didn't dare look into his eyes, those same eyes that were staring hard at her, willing her to break.

"Are you fighting with Mr. Crowley, Mama?" Both Naomi and Crowley turned their heads to see Zoë standing at the opening of the kitchen in her pajamas, her hair sticking up all over the place.

"Yes, she is!" snarled Crowley, stepping away from Naomi, who proceeded to straighten her robe.

"You really shouldn't do that. He's awesome and he's got a sweet blade." Crowley looked at Naomi smugly.

Put out colored with a little jealousy, she responded huffily, "I've got a blade, too."

"Cool! Can I see it?"

Both Crowley and Naomi responded emphatically, "No!"

"So, Mama, if you're an angel, do you have wings?" She hopped into a chair at the bar as Naomi made her a bowl of cereal.

Naomi blushed, unused to talking about herself. Crowley answered for her. "She does. She flaps them when she gets annoyed."

"They don't _flap_."

"Do you have a halo?" At this, he snickered. She flashed him a look of utter disdain. It perturbed her that he didn't take angelic matters seriously. But he was a mere demon, what did he know?

"No, dear."

"So...does that make me an angel?"

"That is a complicated question that we'll talk about when you're older. Right now, you're simply a little girl." She sat a bowl in front of Zoë.

"Can I see Heaven?" she managed between bites.

"Not right now."

"How about Hell?

"Absolutely not."

"You're not going to tell me much, are you?"

"I'm afraid not," Naomi smiled.

"Who's Abaddon?"

"A demon, and that's all I'm going to say. Eat your breakfast."

"You ask too many questions," Crowley said as he knocked back a drink.

"Did you know that drinking before lunch is a clear indication of alcoholism? It can lead to liver failure." All the sudden he began to cough and Naomi had to laugh.

"It's all right, sweetheart, he's used to failure."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Things are heating up! I love them, guys. I just love them.**


	5. Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Disclaimer: Not mine...blah blah blah.**
> 
> **Author's Notes: _"She's mad, but she's magic. There's no lie in her fire"_ is from _An Almost Made Up Poem_ by Charles Bukowski. The chapter title comes from the song of the same name by On and On.**
> 
> **Also, if you love Crowley and Naomi and want to fangirl with me, you can find me on Tumblr. My username is sweetteaandpie.**

* * *

 

Naomi worked around the clock as more reports of escalating violence and bloodshed between the angels were broadcast over angel radio. The days never seemed to be long enough, and soon she was dependent on coffee to stay up at night and to get up in the morning. A few times, she'd fallen asleep at her desk, only to wake in the morning with her cheek pressed sternly against its smooth wooden surface. It was difficult managing without her grace, but Crowley refused to return it, citing their contract. It infuriated her greatly her, but she would just have to make due.

She also demanded much of Jonas and Nadia. Day and night they were summoned by her to update her on their progress. They were tasked with recruiting angels to back Naomi in her fight against Metatron for Heaven, however it was proving to be more difficult than initially thought as the angels were growing exceedingly divisive and thus, more violent. Also, the angels weren't that keen on trusting the word of other angels, let alone demons. They were too busy trying to stay alive than to decide where their loyalties lay, and so many turned a cold, distrustful shoulder to Naomi's recruiters. There were several incidences that led her to threatening Jonas and Nadia with Agiel because of their sullen, resentful complaints that she was asking them to do the impossible. Naomi fired back that she wasn't asking them to do anything she wasn't willing to do herself.

" _We need more angels! What are you doing with your time, wasting it? Why don't you have more angels agreeing to join us?_ " Jonas mimicked Naomi in an exaggerated voice, as she sat at her desk watching his spectacle with disdain. Naomi appeared unflappable and hard. He continued, "You want to know why angels aren't signing up to be on our team? Because an angel would have to be fucking stupid to work with a demon! Lady, we aren't the fucking Girl Scouts! They're not signing up to get cookies!"

Naomi sat back in her chair and gave him a stony look. "Jonas, you're not here to think. That's what I do. You and Nadia do what I tell you to do."

"Yeah, and what you're telling us to do isn't working. You don't have to _think_ to notice it's not working. You just have to open your eyes and look."

Nadia spoke up, "Yeah, and if the angels give their loyalty to anyone but Bartholomew or Malachi, they risk being killed. Why would they agree to fight for you and risk their lives? If I were an angel, I wouldn't!"

"And we mustn't forget, angels are too high and mighty to work with anyone they consider to be beneath them. Even the most desperate ones would rather be killed by Bartholomew or Malachi than agree to join forces with a damned demon, even if it is for mere _recruitment purposes_. For all I care, you can keep killing each other. What have you ever done for us anyway? All of you are nothing but a bunch of damned dicks and you get what you deserve."

Naomi shot out of her chair and yelled testily, "That's enough! You are not here to ask questions or to get answers. I'm keeping you alive for one purpose only." In a split second, she grabbed her blade from a drawer and slammed it down on her desk, the sound of metal clanging against wood resounded throughout the office. "If you think failure is a better option, let me know right now so that I can stop wasting my time with you."

She looked from Jonas to Nadia, both of whom were seething through narrowed eyes. Jonas's fists tightened into balls. Naomi almost willed him to try anything, as she sorely needed to work out some of her mounting frustration.

When no one responded, she sat back down, leaving her blade in its place. "All right. This is what's going to happen," she took out a couple of pieces of stationery and began writing feverishly, "you will give Malachi and Bartholomew each a memo. Coming directly from me may perhaps persuade them to meet with me personally to discuss this situation."

"You want us to go directly to the top?" Nadia asked suspiciously, not bothering to mask the hesitation in her voice.

"Don't worry, Nadia. I'll make sure to underline the sentence requesting they not kill you just yet."

Her fellow demon muttered under his breath.

"Jonas, if I can hear prayers in China, I can hear what you're muttering two feet in front of me." Naomi sealed the two letters in envelopes and handed one to Nadia and the other to Jonas. "Deliver these promptly; it would not be wise to test my patience right now."

When they didn't immediately disappear, she barked, "Go!"

They vanished and Naomi sat back in her chair deep in thought. If the angels were being so reticent to join her, she would have to revise her strategy. Her absence had undoubtedly escalated the ongoing war and resentment between the two factions. It was heated when she was in charge, but now it was full-blown violence. She should never have made Bartholomew her second-in-command. He seemed eager to please, obedient, and trustworthy when he'd first been appointed. But that turned out to be a grievous error in judgment. If he'd been any leader whatsoever, he would've found a way to keep the conflict from intensifying. He'd only proved that he was self-interested and self-important; his agenda was his own without giving a second thought to how his actions would impact anyone else. There were so few of them left after Castiel had gone on his murderous rampage that they couldn't afford to lose anymore. Her true desire lay in seeking revenge on Metatron and re-entering Heaven with her brothers and sisters, but this was going to have to be delayed until she could get them to stop killing each other.

And that was going to be a big task.

She glanced over at the clock on the wall and was surprised to see that it said 1:35. Time never had meant anything to her before, and now she was counting the hours and minutes. Standing up, she felt her bones crack and pop. An odd sensation no doubt caused by sitting most of the day several days in a row. Her neck ached, her back ached, and she was exhausted. The inane limitations of the human body played a part in hindering the progress of her work. For the tenth time that day, she wished she could get her hands on her grace. She hated being immobile; she was a leader and a warrior, and it felt like an act of cowardice to be sitting behind a desk letting demons do her work while angels were being slaughtered. She didn't like working with demons; it was unclean. And it added to her already foul mood.

Deciding that a hot bath would do her good, she pulled herself wearily up the stairs and plodded along to her bathroom where she locked the rest of the world out more than she locked herself in. Her clothes were folded and stacked neatly on a shelf; with a gentle tug, her hair fell down her neck, reaching just below her shoulders. Once the tub was full, she sank into the steaming water, letting it encase her in its warmth. The sweet-smelling bubbles blanketed her. The bath was like medicine, like a fast-acting tonic to her fatigue and rotten mood. She folded a wet washcloth and placed it over her forehead and eyes, which did wonders for her headache. Every muscle relaxed and her sharp pains became dull aches. She extended her legs as far as they could go and stretched her neck until she felt it pop. Her body was already on the road to recovery from its overuse.

"What is that line...? _She's mad, but she's magic. There's no lie in her fire_."

There was no energy left to let even a simple sigh of disapproval slip from her mouth. She was covered by a thick layer of foam, so she didn't have to worry about him being able to see anything. Though if the truth be known, at this point, she didn't know if she could possibly muster enough energy to care if he saw anything.

Somehow, she was able to respond without having to exert herself any further by actually moving her mouth. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, that's right. Bureaucrats have no need for poetry. What a dull existence it must be for angels. It has to be difficult to think about one thing and only one thing every day for eternity. No free will, no vices of any kind, nothing. You simply do as you're told."

"Shut up."

A pregnant pause followed, which made Naomi slightly uncomfortable. She wondered if Crowley was still there, but she wasn't going to disturb her present cozy state to raise her warm washcloth for a peek. She didn't have to wait long for him to assert that he was still present.

"By the way, I ran into Nadia and Jonas a few minutes ago. They were their usual moronic selves, but obviously terrified something awful was going to happen if I'd kept them from whatever they were doing. You wouldn't happen to have anything to do with that, would you?"

"Maybe."

"Ah, then I should commend your leadership skills. Nothing like putting a little fear of Hell into them. You tend to do that, you know. I find that it's an admirable quality to have. I would've given those two up for dead long before now. Remarkable how they've been able to stay alive; they don't have half a brain between them. Tell me, love, what was so important that they rudely disappeared on me mid-sentence?"

"I wouldn't tell you if you had a knife to my throat."

She immediately felt the sharp point of Crowley's blade dig into the flesh of her neck. Slowly, she peeled the washcloth off her face and gazed down at the blade he held to her throat. He dug a little deeper, and she was sure he'd pierced her skin.

"You might want to rethink your answer."

"What's it to you?" she asked, the knife pinching her with every syllable that passed through her throat and out of her mouth.

"You've been reclusive and secretive lately, and I like to make it a habit to know what those in my presence are up to, especially angels. I don't trust any of them. And you've screwed me over before."

She looked into his sneering face and hissed through her teeth, "I have never screwed you over. But go ahead and do it. Go ahead and slice me open. It'll give you an idea of what Abaddon's going to do to you when she finds you."

"I don't need your assistance in defeating Abaddon, you devious bitch. I could so easily end you right here."

Crowley didn't often call her a bitch or hold a knife to her throat. The last time he'd pulled a weapon on her was in a fit of jealousy, and it hadn't ended too well for him. He was genuinely angry. She didn't know what had happened to arouse his temper. Surely a couple of demons wouldn't have been enough to provoke such an intense reaction.

She studied his face for a moment, then replied sharply, "I gave Nadia and Jonas letters for Malachi and Bartholomew. I want to meet with them personally to discuss the state of things."

He studied her momentarily, probably to gauge her honesty, then laughed mockingly, "Do you? That's not going to happen. I hear Bartholomew's not making any personal appearances."

"Oh, yes, it's going to happen. I am still his superior. This is a chance to talk some sense into both of them and end all this unnecessary violence-"

"You're going to talk some sense into an elitist snob and a thug?" His derisive laugh got louder; she didn't think there was anything to laugh about. When he decided he was satisfied with her answer, he removed the blade and sat on the side of the tub. She relaxed a bit now that a blade wasn't digging into her throat, but curious as to why he'd been so defensive. She certainly didn't trust him, either.

"Malachi isn't a thug. He has worked for his position; perhaps if he'd worked harder and had more ambition, he might have achieved a more prestigious post. It's not too late. As for Bartholomew, he is self-absorbed and a terrible leader. His only interest is in himself."

"That's the trouble with you bureaucrats; you don't see the forest for the trees, so to speak. You're so narrowly focused on yourselves you miss the broader scope of things."

Releasing an angry breath, she scoffed, "And I suppose demons are so much more enlightened?"

"We see the whole picture; we don't get caught up in the workings and trappings of the situation. We go after what we want and move on to the next scenario. There's no time for self-involved drama."

"Demons lie, steal, and cheat to get what they want. They satisfy their own urges as the expense of others."

"And that is different from the angels how? You have two angels engaging their minions in guerrilla warfare against each other. Why? For control of Heaven. To satisfy a lust for power. Not that I see anything wrong with that, but it just goes to show you that we're not so different, after all." He gazed down at her with an unreadable expression. "You and I are not so different." Gently, he scraped the edge of his blade along her jawline, just grazing the skin. Naomi watched it, not making any sudden moves lest it nicked her. She tried to contain her shudder. Once it reached her chin, he began dragging it downward, stopping where the water met her chest. She glared at him, willing him to drop dead.

"You and are very different. I have a moral code to uphold. I'm trying to fix this not because I want power, but because I want to save the few of us that are left and return to Heaven. I want to end the fighting!"

"And I want to keep Hell out of Abaddon's greedy hands because she will destroy what I have worked to build. Do you not think about how demons and angels will suffer under her rule? We'd both like to see our domains saved from the hands of the undeserving whores and pricks who want it for themselves. And we'll use any method we can to stop them."

"Heaven is not my _domain_." she puffed indignantly.

"Oh, calm down!" he said, having quelled the flames from his explosion. "You know, I do love it when you get all hot and bothered. I makes me hate the thought of having to kill you, but if you leave me no choice, then you leave me no choice."

"You can try, but you won't succeed," she informed him bluntly.

He lowered his voice and became serious. "If I find out you've been conspiring to obtain your freedom, or to fight against Hell, I'll do worse than kill you. I'll take you to Hell and lock you up, only to let you out for playtime. And believe me, playtime won't be as fun for you as it will be for me."

Naomi raised up as far as she could and still be covered by the bubbles in her bath. "And if you try anything like that, or if you try to obstruct my work, I will destroy you in the most painful way possible. You will not enjoy it, I can promise you that. Do I make myself clear, you disgusting cockroach?"

"Sticks and stones, darling," he smirked. "Remember that moral code you're pretending to uphold. No place in the code for torture, I would presume."

She didn't want to fight anymore; it was too tiring. They would always fight and exchange harsh words; she was an angel and he a demon. It was to be expected., and she didn't want to waste anymore energy on it. Instead, she lay back in her bath, irritated she'd been disturbed and kept from enjoying the peacefulness the warm water was affording her. "Why don't you get out of here and leave me alone?"

He replaced his blade in his jacket pocket. His tone abruptly changed to a lighter, albeit sarcastic one. "Did I interrupt your bath? I have a habit of doing that, don't I?"

He knew very well he was interrupting her bath, which angered her further.

"Yes, you do! I was having a nice, relaxing soak until you showed up uninvited and threatened me. You should really learn to keep your paranoia in check."

"Can't be too careful these days. There are all kinds of demons and humans that would love to do me in."

"They'll have to beat me to it," she added dryly. "You have the remarkable ability of making everyone you meet want to kill you."

"It's jealousy. They all want to be King of Hell, but none of them possess enough balls or smarts to even come close to competing with me. Come on, let's put away our differences for now."

"No," she grumbled and closed her eyes.

"You look stressed," he tutted. "Tell Daddy all about it, hm?"

"Why would I want to tell you about it?"

"You look, I don't know, like you may be in some discomfort? I can help you out with that, you know. I haven't given you a good massage in a decade or more, and since we're stuck together in this house, I might as well make good use of myself. And I give damn good ones, if I do say so myself."

Naomi had to agree with that. His large, firm hands had helped put her at ease before. She was sure he could loosen the knots in her shoulders and back, maybe even take the pain away. At the very least, he could help with the tension in her muscles. The last time he'd massaged her however, she ended up forgetting herself. The moral code she'd sworn to uphold had been tossed aside. A bit of guilt crept into her conscious as she recalled that instance. But she desperately needed to relax, and Crowley could admittedly help her with that. Her willpower was quite strong and she was very disciplined, which would help her to rebuff any sexual overtures he would make. If she could get him to tame his lewd behavior, she could get rid of her pain and empty her head. She thought it over.

"All right. But there will be rules," she peered at him distrustfully.

"Naturally. You're an angel; I bet there are rules and policies on which side you button your jacket."

"We always button on the right side."

"It was a joke!" he bellowed.

It was her turn to smirk. "Hands must be above the waist at all times. No inappropriate touching. And I'll be wearing pajamas."

"Of course, of course. I didn't actually expect to have any fun, Naomi."

She didn't appreciate his sarcastic tone.

"Good."

"I'll be waiting for you in the bedroom. Hurry." He vanished, leaving her alone to finish her bath and dress for bed.

* * *

When she emerged from the bathroom, he was waiting for her with a couple of glasses of red wine in his hands. The room was dark except for a couple of lit candles that stood on the nightstand by the bed. She was unquestionably surprised...and cautious, especially since he'd been threatening to kill her not even a half-hour before. An outside light shone through the window and cast an opaque glow on the side of his face, but the rest of him was shrouded in darkness.

"This will help relax you," he explained, stepping closer to hand her the glass. She could see him more clearly now.

"Thank you," she said, unsure about this. She hoped he did realize this was only a massage.

He snickered, "Holy mother of sin, Naomi, loosen up! We're not picking out china patterns!"

She frowned and pulled her silk robe tightly around her as she took a sip of the wine. Almost immediately, its effect diffused throughout her body creating a soothing sensation. Crowley moved behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. She jumped at the contact, then relaxed as he kneaded her through the thin fabric of her robe.

"That's my girl. How does that feel?" It felt like his mouth was next to her ear.

"Mmmm, good," she sighed, taking another sip.

"Release your shoulders; you're tense and it's making the muscles stiff."

"It's your job to fix that." His hands felt so good. There was a little pain as he worked his hands over the tightly wound muscles in her shoulders, but it quickly dissipated. She tilted her head back and savored the incredible feeling of relief that was beginning to radiate in her.

"Always a smart ass. I can massage your back, if you want. I have that lotion you always liked. Of course, you'd have to expose your back to me, and I'm not sure if you're ready for the irreversible repercussions that could have."

"I can do without your sarcasm," she pursed her lips.

He picked up the lotion. "Well?"

Hesitating, she went to the side of the bed and set down her half-emptied glass of wine. "All right. As long as you keep your hands on my back..."

"You are such a prude! I can't believe anyone managed to knock you up. Did he even get to see your back?" He shook his head in disbelief.

"Shut up or leave. I'm not so quick to give into the lustful impulses you demons so readily indulge."

"I've witnessed you give into some lustful impulses a time or ten before, sweetheart. Lay down."

"Turn your head!" she instructed him prissily.

He sighed, but did as she asked. "It's not like I've ever seen them before."

"That's not the point." She took of her robe and slid the thin straps of her blue nightie down and off her arms. Embarrassed, she pushed the nightie down to her hips and securely wrapped her robe around her waist. Quickly, she lay on her stomach, pressing the side of her face into the pillow. She double-checked to make sure Crowley couldn't see anything that would stimulate his already overactive imagination.

"If you're going to take all night..."

"You can turn around now."

* * *

The sight of her looking at him was alluring, whether she meant it to be or not. Her hair was out of that uptight knot she usually wore it in, swept to the side of her face with the rest laying on her bare back. Her robe cradled her hips, the curves of her body blatant and discerning as if she were showcasing them. What deliciously wicked thoughts he was going to have of her as his hands were on her body. He'd jested at the irreversible repercussions of seeing her bare back, when in actual fact, the sight of it was causing him to replay memories of him caressing and kissing the very same back at several points throughout their history together.

He shed his jacket and tie, and unbuttoned his sleeves, rolling them up to his elbows. As he slathered lotion on his hands, he took the opportunity to leer at her. He was a demon, after all. Lust wasn't a sin; it was a virtue. Dammit that Naomi didn't feel the same way, but he must confess that he found these little games they played quite enticing. He would break her; he always did. And when she broke, he would be there to delightfully defile her, to remind her that the moral code she upheld was bullshit. Hypocrite.

When his knee hit the bed, he could see her body stiffen. He knew she could feel him near her. Her body could tell when he was nearby, even if she couldn't see him. It always became rigid. He crawled up to her; she couldn't see him once he was directly behind her. It gave him a thrill. He waited, feeling her anticipation grow, then began rubbing his hands on her skin, pressing deeply to get at the muscle beneath. It had been a long while since he last touched her bare skin.

He kneaded and rubbed firmly. A little sound escaped her mouth, and he knew she probably hadn't meant it to. It almost sent him over the edge. He was all too pleased with himself. "Like that, love?"

"Mmmm."

He leaned to the side and saw her eyes were closed; she even had something almost resembling a smile on her face. His hands moved lower and dipped to stroke her sides. Her body shook slightly. Curious, he did it again and got the same reaction.

"You're tickling me," she muttered lazily out of the side of her mouth, accompanied by a lethargic laugh.

"Well, I'll be a son of a whore," he said. "She remembers how to laugh."

"Of course I do. Remember that café in Paris? We were sitting at a table with a couple and the man kept trying to play with my foot. And it tickled," she giggled so hard it made the bed shake. "And you were jealous!"

"I was not jealous!" he protested furiously, kneading harder.

"You were! You told him if he did it again, you would tear off all his limbs one by one and feed them to your hellhound!"

"Only because you were making that face you make when you feel your 'moral code' threatened."

"I was not!" She suddenly flipped onto her back, using her robe to cover her body.

Crowley moved to lay next to her, resting his elbow on the pillow beside hers. His head rested in his hand. "You were. You always make the same face and then I have to decide whether I'm going to save your uptight feathered ass or stand by and get a good laugh out of it."

"Speaking of which, where is your hellhound?"

"Growley? Oh, he's indisposed..."

He still hadn't forgiven that son of a bitch Sam Winchester for the murder of his innocent pup, among other things. He'd forgive Moose for trying to turn him human and keeping him locked up for several months before he'd forgive him for killing his hound! He rather missed that adorable monster. The hellhound that is, not Moose.

The laughter died down and he was staring at her face, as he'd done many times before. Nothing had changed. Being one who liked routine and sameness, she'd had the same vessel for more years than he could count. He liked this one, though he couldn't explain why. It matched her personality somehow. Out of nowhere, a pang of jealousy surfaced. He could tell Naomi noticed the change in his face because she asked him what was wrong.

"Who was it that you let take the stick out of your ass and knock you up?" he growled.

It was true, it had been almost a constant question on his mind, though he'd convinced himself he didn't care about where the spawn of Naomi came from. He did wonder who Naomi would possibly allow to violate her in such a way that it produced something that contravened angelic code. It was only natural to wonder. It had been odd discovering that she was a mother. She didn't seem like she could be anyone's mother; angels had such a one-track mind that there didn't seem time or room to be anything else but a feathered dick. He'd been too busy with other things to really contemplate her parenting skills. But he'd obsessively pondered who'd been able to the one thing he hadn't been able to do.

"I'm not answering that," she responded shortly.

He searched her eyes, and when she tried to turn away, he grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him.

"Answer me," he said a little more forcefully. Naomi attempted to push him away, but he pinned her arms to the bed.

"Why do you even care?" she fumed, struggling to find a way to free herself.

"Because when I find him, I'm going to rip him from limb to limb and gut him like a pig."

"Crowley, jealousy is such an unattractive quality to have," she snapped impatiently.

"If you don't tell me, I'll find out. I don't have problems finding the information I want." He let her go and removed himself from the bed. Reaching for his jacket, he couldn't help but gaze at her, still covered in the silken material of her robe which outlined the contours of her body. It didn't do such a good job of hiding what was underneath. Damn her. He wanted to break her neck and make her his at the same time. He wanted to make her writhe and scream, watching her face contort as she begged him for release. He wanted to cause her pain, to brand her with agony. His breathing was deep and audibly perceptible in the stillness of the room. She inspired such deep feelings of lust and hatred in him, especially the thought of her with another.

At once, he realized the gravity of his thoughts. He'd been grappling internally with such feelings since those bloody Winchesters had him chained up in that lair of theirs. He remembered the night in the church when he looked up at Moose and screamed at him.

" _I deserve to be loved!_ "

It secretly made him anxious to think he had a modicum of humanity somewhere inside him. He'd changed that night. He felt things, thought things that were never present inside him before. Many times he had mulled over how it would effect his fight with Abaddon; he could not lose all that he had worked for to that whore because of this.

"Crowley," she sighed. "Come back to bed." She turned slightly and patted the pillow beside her.

He was wrenched from his thoughts. He stood there, very shocked at this sudden turn of events. Very, very shocked. She was inviting him back to her bed despite, well, everything. Maybe not to do any sexy poking, but...this was a promising start. Perhaps humanity was having a similar effect on Naomi, he considered. She was still a hoity-toity bitch, though; that hadn't changed. His anger abated, but didn't completely disappear.

* * *

Naomi noticed that Crowley hadn't been quite right all evening. His moods had changed quicker that evening than a teenager's did during all the teen years combined. So far, he'd been distrustful, paranoid, and now jealous. She watched him replace his jacket before sliding back into bed beside her.

"You're being a child," she said simply.

"Am I?" He didn't seem to want to talk about it and shrugged it off. "Want me to continue your massage?"

The offer surprised even her, but she refrained from saying anything, just quietly nodded and rolled back onto her stomach. She couldn't see him, but soon she felt his hands on her again. The coolness of the lotion as it made contact with her skin made her shiver.

"Want to talk about it?"

"There's nothing to talk about," he replied as he worked on her lower back, precisely where she'd been aching the past few days. It felt so good that she had to suppress a moan.

"All right, be stubborn."

"You're a pain in my ass."

"Is that what's been bothering you?"

"No."

She sighed. Fine, let him keep his secrets. If he didn't want to talk, she couldn't make him. She wondered if she'd missed anything these past few days that she'd barricaded herself in her office, entrenched in work. Maybe the fight with Abaddon was taking its toll, although he was a demon, he should have the stamina of, well, a demon! But Crowley was proud of the empire he'd built, he wouldn't and couldn't just let it all go. It was all very confusing, and on top of it, she was very tired.

She lay like that for a long while as Crowley's hands worked their magic. Nothing more than silence passed between them. Little by little, she felt all her pain melt away. Crowley had restored everything except her energy level, which was more than she could ask for.

"I'm much better," she said, pausing before adding hesitantly, "Thank you." She began to get up, clutching her robe to her.

Crowley went to sit on the end of the bed, seemingly deep in thought while Naomi expeditiously adjusted her nightie and covered herself, tying her robe tightly. Not knowing what else to do, she sat beside him.

He began talking, "The first time I saw you, you were bathing in the Euphrates, and when you caught me looking at you, you became irate. You accused me-"

"-of treachery. I remember. You were watching the maidens bathe, something that you weren't supposed to be doing."

"Oh, what did it matter? I wasn't watching them; I was watching you."

"Still, you weren't supposed to be there."

"We were gods," he recalled fondly. "We answered to no one. We were revered and worshiped."

"You know I don't approve of this blasphemous talk," she said with disapproval in her voice.

"It didn't take long before you were in my bed," he continued with nostalgia coating his voice. "The times we used to have, Naomi."

"I remember," she blushed. She was sure the crimson of her burning cheeks could be seen through the darkness.

"Do you? You haven't changed much. Still hell-bent, pardon the expression, on following rules and procedures. You weren't as much a bureaucrat back then as you are now, but then there were no asses to kiss. Until the one god came into the picture and sent everything into chaos."

"That's enough. I can't believe you're still bitter about it after all these years."

"Bitter doesn't even cover it, sweetheart. One day, you stopped coming to my bed and the next, I was demoted to a mere demon and cast into Hell. And it was a totally different place than my previous otherworldly habitat." With the snap of his fingers, he refilled one of the empty wine glasses that sat on the table in front of him and took a drink. "I realized you'd screwed me over. I shouldn't have been surprised. You were always looking after your own interests."

"I did not screw you over," she said in earnest.

"Oh, please! You left me for a pair of wings and a fluffy cloud."

"It was a good offer!"

"And look at the lot of you now! Wandering the earth killing each other. Still think it's so good?"

"It was good; and it will be good again."

"Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart." He finished the wine and refilled it, but Naomi snatched it away.

She was furious. This was the one thing that had come between them since their time in Mesopotamia. Well, one of several things. She was tired of being accused of screwing him over, when she'd actually tried to help him.

"Crowley, remember the offer you received from Gabriel?"

"Ah yes. The offer to be an angel? To get my own cloud and wings and harp? All so I could sit in Heaven for an eternity and watch the poor bastards of earth indulge in things I had to forsake in order to be considered one of those feathery fiends? No thanks. Hell wasn't exactly my cup of tea at first, but it grew on me. It wasn't the same as being a deity, but it was a hell of a lot better than having my free will taken away."

"It was because of me that offer was even extended to you."

"I wasn't interested in a sanitized existence. I didn't think it would suit you, either. You were always too passionate and ambitious and ruthless." He eyed her with an intensity that made her feel vulnerable and exposed. "You're better suited as a Knight of Hell, my darling. Abaddon has absolutely nothing on you. Or Queen of Hell. Think of the good times we'd have, you and I, ruling Hell. Nothing could stop us."

The thought of having anything to do with Hell sickened her. She was a protector and guardian of souls, and anything to do with destruction went against everything she believed and had worked for.

"Keep dreaming, dear," she said dryly. "I'm afraid the climate of Hell would be bad for my mood."

Without warning, he placed a hand on her knee and slid it up her leg until it was under her nightie. Outraged, she quickly grabbed it and threw it off her in disgust. She jumped up, causing him to release a raucous laugh.

"There's a little Hell inside you; you can't hide it from me. You may try to deny it, or refuse to acknowledge it, but it's there. You're just saving it for when you meet up with Metatron." He stood up and pulled her to him; he leaned over and whispered into her ear. "And when you do meet up with him, I want to be there to watch. It would give me such pleasure to hear his screams as I watch you give him exactly what he deserves. Don't try and tell me that what you're planning for him is at all acceptable in that 'moral code' you pretend to abide by when it suits you."

She's had enough of his taunting. She raised her chin and looked at him straight in the eye. "Since we're talking about moral codes, why don't you stop hiding behind me and go after Abaddon? The King of Hell isn't supposed to be a coward; he's supposed to fight. All I see you do is hide out here. I'm behind a desk plotting and planning because you won't return my grace and I have to make do with what I have. What's your pathetic excuse?"

It was obvious he wasn't expecting the acrimony of her rebuttal. For the longest moment, he remained rooted to the spot looking at her impassively; she _almost_ felt sorry for saying what she did. Almost. The silence was beginning to make her slightly uncomfortable. She fully expected him to lash out at her angrily or threaten her, but he didn't. He gave her no indication of what he was thinking or what he was going to do. Instead, he simply turned and left through her door.

She gazed up at the clock; late had become early. Glancing out the window, she noticed that the light of the morning was gradually bleeding into the black of the night. It was a new day and she hadn't even dealt with the old one yet. She'd better get started on making coffee; she would need it.


	6. Look After You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Rating: M; this chapter is for adults 18+ for sexual situations**
> 
>  
> 
> **Author's Notes: Chapter title comes from the song _Look After You_ by The Fray.**

She felt someone moving against her, skin against skin, pushing her further and further into the softness of the mattress with each heated, zealous thrust. She cradled a body hot and wet with perspiration between her open legs, and she felt him plunge in and pull out of her repeatedly at a vigorous pace. Her breasts were painfully crushed against his chest; she couldn't escape him if she tried. He crashed into her over and over again, filling her completely and possessively. The room was deathly quiet except for the sound of their sex, which was soon joined by a moan that she realized had appallingly come from her own mouth. That couldn't have been her, could it?

She was suddenly completely conscious of the fact that she was engaging in a sexual act, but she didn't feel entirely in control of her body. It was rebelling against the disquieted thoughts that were rapidly surfacing in her mind regarding this situation she found herself in, acting against her wishes to immediately crawl out from under this person and throw some clothes on. This was all wrong, so very wrong. The moan had escaped from her mouth, but she wasn't sure how.

In blatant disregard of the distress that coursed through her mind, she closed her eyes and threw her head back allowing wet lips to latch on to the skin of her neck, sucking and licking. Why was her body flagrantly defying sense and reason? She wanted to extract herself; she became frantic with every action that betrayed her, a representative of Heaven! Her hips, however, began to act of their own volition and met the thrusts with an urgency that surprised even her. She moaned louder as the lips at her neck curved into a smile, a movement so feathery light that it tickled her. She was unable to scratch it as she couldn't even will her hands to move to take care of the annoyance. They were busy dragging her nails down the back of the man assaulting her. It must be assault. There was no other reason she would be in this position, surely. It was all so confusing!

But, oh, it felt good, she had to admit. She was ashamed of the realization that a tiny part of her was glad she couldn't move, that she didn't have to make the responsible decision to stop what he was doing. He moved down, biting and licking until his mouth was on her breast. No, no, no, she screamed in her head. She couldn't be doing this; it was wrong. So, why was she spreading her legs wider, quietly urging him on with her body? She thought she heard a low chuckle escape from him. He knew too well what he was doing to her. She hated him! Whoever he was, she hated him and she dug her nails into the flesh of his back until she felt little springs of blood erupt. He hissed against her breast and answered her with a bite. She moaned again, ragged and desperate. So much pleasure was contained in the pain, and she held him closer, clinging to him as though he might get up and walk away. His movements sped up and a familiar, intense feeling of warmth began pooling in her stomach.

"Naomi," he rasped. "Look at me."

Finally, she had seemed to regain some control of her body because she could now open her eyes to learn her lover's identity. They widened in revulsion when she saw him.

"Crowley," she growled through her panting, which had been reduced to a series of staccato noises by her lover's forceful thrusts.

"Hello, darling. Miss me?" groaned Crowley, his eyes were dark with arousal. His mouth was twisted into a vile, loathsome smirk that she wanted to smack off his face, which hovered a mere couple of inches from hers.

Initially, she was shocked, but his rough caresses and his nails dragging across her hips as he held them firmly in place while he pounded into her quelled any internal protests. His hands left little fires in their wake which she silently begged him to put out with the coolness of his mouth. The sinful pleasure he was causing her as he defiled the vessel which encapsulated her heavenly essence made her increasingly disgusted with herself. Why couldn't her body simply turn away? Why couldn't she fight him? She wanted to tell him to stop, but the words were caught in her throat. All she could manage to release was a husky "I hate you" on the wave of another moan. However, she didn't think she was doing such a good job at showing him how much she hated him at this very moment. Maybe she hated her body for its treason as it responded without any hesitation to his ministrations. An angel was supposed to obey the will of God, but instead her body was obeying the King of Hell.

"Show me," he laughed, challenging her. He was panting, his hot breath against her skin. Their eyes clashed, blue on hazel, daring the other to look away. Her hair was plastered to her forehead and face by the beads of sweat that gathered there. Her body was slick, allowing him to easily glide along the length of it.

But she couldn't show him. She was helpless against him. He must be using some sort of magic that his witch mother had taught him, or perhaps he was possessing her...somehow. Control-she needed to regain control of the situation, even as her back arched as her prurience was elevated to new heights by the unclean demon between her legs.

"Naomi, darling...," he purred into her ear, using that rich, rumbling voice of his, saturated with his lust. When he said her name, she almost exploded. She was nearing the edge, and she tried to step away. Mentally, she fought back. She couldn't do this! Not again! She promised herself after the last time-

All of a sudden, she sat straight up in her bed gasping, her chest heaving and sweat dripping down her body. Her pajamas were soaked and her hair was heavy with wetness. She quickly glanced around the bed for any sign of _him_. Finding no evidence that he'd actually been in her bed, she calmed down just a bit, swallowing the dry lump in her throat-or was it bile? She must've been dreaming; it was just a dream. Exhaling in relief, she reached over to get a drink from the glass of water she always kept by her bed and happened to notice his dark form sitting in the chair by the window. She stopped what she was doing and scowled.

"What are you doing here? Get out," she bit at him angrily.

"My, my, but you're in a foul mood. What's wrong, love? Horrible dreams?"

Her deceitful heart skipped a beat. His voice was like velvet, smooth and beckoning through the darkness of the room. Instantly, she thought of him crooning her name in the dream, but snapped herself out of it almost as quickly.

"What do you know about my dreams?" she barked suspiciously. Her voice was weak and hoarse, and she tried clearing her throat a couple of times to find relief and perhaps strengthen it. It remained weak and hoarse, however.

He stood and threw his hands up. "You're the one that woke up furious and in a mess. What else could it be but a bad dream?" Surveying her drenched form, he crossed the room and disappeared into her bathroom, reemerging with a towel that he tossed her.

"I can get my own towel." She looked at it skeptically, as though it was a weapon Crowley could be using against her. She felt vulnerable, not something she was used to feeling, and it put her on high alert.

"A simple thank you would be nice, Naomi. But I guess that would be asking too much." He regarded her curiously as she gingerly reached for the towel to pat her face dry. The streaks of perspiration on her face and neck glistened in the faint light that streamed through the window. He went to her side and sat on the edge of the bed. "You've been having a lot of them lately, haven't you?"

She nodded and lay back against her pillow, now utterly fatigued and too exhausted to fight, still clutching the towel in her hand. Her body was weary with the burdens she carried; they increasingly weighed on her with each passing day. The long workdays, the sleepless nights, and the worry she felt as more news of slaughter aired on angel radio were taking its toll. Naomi was not one to give up or ease up on her duties when things got rough; she was the complete opposite. If things weren't going to her liking, she took it personally, as though they reflected some personal failure. It only served to make her work harder.

And as a result, she over-exerted and over-extended herself until her vessel began to push back. The headaches, the lightheadedness, the irritability, and the intense dreams were her body warning her of an impending shutdown. Not that she was listening. Incessantly, she prayed for peace between the warring angelic factions because prayer was all she had left; her efforts all seemed to be in vain. She hoped for a little peace for herself, too.

"The whole angel situation is causing you a significant amount of stress. You barely sleep enough as it is. Do you have these dreams every night?" he inquired, his voice oddly mellow and sincere.

Naomi paused to gauge this newfound sincerity. It was strange coming from Crowley. Their last argument had caused him to grouse for a few days, actively avoiding her. He would stay gone most of the day and night, and when he did happen to cross paths with her, he'd snarl and sneer and retreat to the basement. She didn't know what kept him out so much or where he went; he never shared much with her. The first few days following their fight, Naomi thought she'd feel relieved having him out of her sight, but if she were being truthful, she rather missed his presence, no matter how vexing he was to her.

"Not this particular dream," her voice cracked, sounding strained. She was sure she was blushing; she felt her skin burn with embarrassment as scenes from her dream replayed in her mind. "But I do dream every night. Most of the time, they are not...pleasant," she confessed.

"I'm surprised you dream at all as little as you sleep."

She gave him a faint smile and said, "There's a war on and you can believe Malachi and Bartholomew aren't sleeping."

"Damn bloody angels," he muttered and stood up. "It's still a few hours until you usually get up. Try and get some more sleep."

Shaking her head then leaning it back on the pillow, she responded tiredly, "No, I don't think I could go back to sleep. Besides, the dreams..."

"I can help you...if you want," he smirked.

"Help how?" she eyed him distrustfully. "Are you going to do some magic your witch mother taught you? Let me guess...you'll need my blood-you already have my grace-the bone of a chicken, and a hair from one of the Winchesters?" Sarcasm saturated her words. Her lips pursed together forming a tight, disbelieving smile.

"You shouldn't talk about my mother in such a tone, Naomi. She actually liked you, against her better judgment. And no, no magic involved." Crowley shed his jacket, throwing it over the back of one of the chairs.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to help you sleep. Soundly." He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, tossing them on the chair. His pants were the last to join the pile of clothes. Naomi watched him, feeling uneasy about this. She wasn't sure why he was being so bold to assume he could undress in her presence, or be welcomed into her bed. But at least he kept his boxers on.

A few hours uninterrupted sleep did sound promising.

As he crawled toward her, she arched her eyebrow and crossed her arms at her chest. "You're being very presumptuous."

"You'll thank me in a few hours when you wake up more rested than you've been in a while," he grinned, settling onto the pillow next to her. He held up an arm and looked at her pointedly. When she didn't move, he rolled his eyes. "Come on, darling, don't be a prude."

When she still didn't move, he sighed and forcibly pulled her into his arms, causing her to emit a little grunt. Her body was rigid, lying awkwardly in a position to which she was unaccustomed. He pressed his body against her back, and she tensed up even more.

"Naomi, relax," he soothed into her ear. "I promise I have no ulterior motives or malicious intent."

When she snorted, he began rubbing comforting circles on her hip using gentle, slow strokes and reciting words of a poem in his low, rough voice. It wasn't anything she'd ever heard before (maybe he'd made it up himself)...something about a winding river... Admittedly, it was consoling. It took a few minutes, but she surrendered to the placidity she found in the moment. The tension gradually retreated and she allowed her eyes to fall shut. The fact that Crowley was in her bed with his arms around her fled to the dark recesses of her mind. Any internal struggles would have to wait because the promise of sleep was too sweet, overpowering any and all misgivings. Rest of any kind had been hard to come by in the past few weeks and her body was beginning to hate her for it. She functioned solely on caffeine and adrenaline these days and it made her as irritable as ever. The few hours of sleep she managed to get between her nightmares never seemed to be enough.

The circles Crowley drew on her hip became larger and slower, and before long, that familiar falling sensation she felt just before sleep consumed her was at the threshold of her consciousness. Taking a deep breath, she willed herself to fall.

* * *

Several hours later, after night had faded into daylight, Crowley delicately untangled himself from Naomi's sleeping form. She hadn't woken up again the remainder of the night and was sleeping so soundly that she hadn't stirred at all as Crowley got out of bed. Just as he finished tying his tie, the door opened and Zoë popped inside. Furrowing her eyebrows, she took in the sight of her sleeping mother; Naomi was always, without exception, awake before her. She then turned to Crowley with a questioning look on her face. He put his finger to his lip and ushered her toward the kitchen, shutting the bedroom door behind him.

"What were you doing in my mother's room?" she asked with an inquisitiveness that at times made Crowley want to pull his hair out. Children asked too many questions, especially this child.

"She had a nightmare," he answered curtly, hoping she'd leave it alone. It didn't surprise him, however, when she pressed the subject.

"What kind of nightmare?"

"She didn't say."

"But you helped her not be scared?" A little flicker of concern clouded the girl's eyes.

"Believe me, there's not anything that can scare your mother. If she wanted to, she could run Hell singlehandedly. And there are a lot of nasty monsters and demons lurking there. A nightmare isn't enough to scare her."

Zoë appeared visibly relieved at this, but then confusion overtook her face. "Then why were you in her room if nightmares don't scare her?"

This kid was too smart for her own good. She was probably smarter than most demons, and he couldn't decide whether to be impressed or irked. "To annoy her," he lied in a dry tone. He didn't feel like going into particulars with her.

"She doesn't seem to like you very much." She sat at the breakfast table, observing him keenly. It made him almost shudder. Her facial expressions possessed that same penetrating quality that Naomi's did; it was unnerving. No one that short should able to make him feel so...disconcerted.

"I don't like her very much, either, so we're well suited to one another."

Zoë immediately brightened up and giggled, "You're lying! Be straight with me, do you have a crush on Mama? Do you want to kiss her?" She giggled again, drawing out the word 'kiss' teasingly.

Temporarily rendered speechless, Crowley's face reflected the utter distaste he found this line of questioning and took a step backward, unwittingly colliding with the refrigerator. He felt trapped. He could reign over demons and other monsters, but giggling 11-year old girls were Kryptonite.

"I'll take that as a yes," the girl said in a mature tone belying her young age. "Mr. Crowley, it's ok if you have a crush on Mama. It's nothing to be ashamed of; sometimes you can't choose who you love."

"You-you're a menace!" he spat out, scowling at her. She was certainly leaping to the most horrific conclusions! "I'd rather be stuck in a confined space with Abaddon and a leviathan than to-to...ew," he finished lamely, appearing more than a little squeamish.

"Oh, please," she rolled her eyes. "You are so obvious! You act like you hate her, but you really, really like her."

"No, I really, really hate her. I'm not a good enough actor to pretend to like her."

"Uh huh. She's not that bad, you know!"

"She is. She's prissy, stubborn, and stern. She never has any fun. And those pantsuits are atrocious."

"Oh my God, you totally have the hots for her!" She jumped out of her seat and ran over to stand in front of him. "I can help you. I know her better than anyone."

Crowley begged to differ, but he stayed silent on that particular matter. "First of all, I haven't had 'the hots' since leaving Hell. Second of all, I don't want your help. I, in no way, want any part of your mother. I don't like angels. They leave a bad taste in my mouth. And I loathe feathers. They get on all the furniture." He narrowed his eyes and glared as he opened the refrigerator, disappearing behind its door to look for some ingredients for a spell he placed in there the day before.

"Fine, fine," she sighed dramatically, sitting back down at the table. "But I think she likes you, too, even though she yells at you a lot. I think it's why she yells at you."

Instantly, his head reappeared from behind the door. "How can you be sure?"

"Well, you've been gone a lot and sometimes she looks wistfully at the basement door, like this." Zoë gazed longingly at the basement door, donning her best puppy dog eyes.

"Naomi doesn't do puppy dog eyes. She eats puppies. In front of their mothers. The cuter the tastier."

"I swear she made that face. A lot."

Part of Crowley thought Zoë was just trying to get someone to date her mother out of some need to see Naomi happy. Or something. Sometimes he watched television shows where that was the case: meddling kids trying to get their lonely mothers a date. The other part of him wondered if Naomi did indeed learn how to do puppy dog eyes. This was a shocking turn of events, that is, if Zoë wasn't embellishing things. The thoughts of Naomi actually missing him made him chuckle and inflated his ego.

"Too bad. Your mother and I will never be...together. So, you can put that thought out of your mind and find her someone else to torment."

"Fine. I won't say another word. My lips are sealed. I won't mention the sad puppy dog eyes she makes when you're not here. You know, the ones that look like this-"

"Oh stop! Can we talk about something else?" he huffed in annoyance. Kids. He'd have to ask Naomi sometime why the hell she felt the need to reproduce.

"Sure!" Zoë exclaimed cheerfully. "Who's Abaddon?"

He felt a headache coming on, and it wasn't even nine o'clock yet. He needed a drink. "Your mother would kill me if I told you. … But I can't really die, so I'll tell you, anyway. Don't tell her that I told you, or I'll never tell you anything else again. Promise?"

Zoë's blue eyes widened, as though she was entrusted with some secret, precious knowledge that she had to guard with her life. "I promise," she breathed.

"Abaddon is a little bitch troll from Hell. And possibly the world's angriest ginger. She's trying to take over Hell, trying to usurp me. I won't let her, though. She doesn't have the best temperament to be a ruler. She's a bit too...angry."

"Why would anyone try to take H-you know, that place where you live-from you? That's like stealing!"

"It's exactly that. Stealing. She lacks finesse, kills first and asks questions later, and is unimaginative. Damn, she's almost like an angel," he chuckled.

The little menace appeared to understand him despite her young age. He wasn't sure why he was engaging this miniature Naomi in conversation, but he took a certain amount of pleasure in going against the angel's wishes and corrupting her spawn with all this talk of Hell and Abaddon. It was rather amusing.

"Mr. Crowley, I'm going to ask you a question and I want an honest answer," Zoë said very seriously, as she sensed they now had an established rapport since he was telling her about things that had been forbidden to her. "Why is my mother so mad all the time? Sometimes I hear her yelling in her office with the door closed. What does she do all day?"

"It's a long story."

"Then let's have a long breakfast so you can give me all the juicy details," she grinned, her face lighting up with mischief. Crowley regarded her briefly, noting that the girl had a side to her that wasn't anything like her mother. He wondered if it was something she'd taken after her father. The idea of this faceless, nameless 'thing' knocking up Naomi once again infuriated him. He'd find out who the kid's father was eventually; he could wait.

Laughing in spite of himself, he snapped breakfast into existence. They settled at the table and Crowley answered all her questions all too eagerly, imagining with great delight the look on Naomi's face if she ever found out.

* * *

Naomi awakened a short while later to the sound of rain splattering against the window and the thunder rumbling overhead. The weather quite accurately reflected her mood. Though she was loathe to remove herself from the soft confines of her bed, she showered and dressed, finally making her way to the kitchen. She was glad Crowley wasn't there when she woke up. She was still quite embarrassed about him presuming he was welcome to manhandle her in her own bed whenever he pleased. She pondered making a devil's trap in her room to keep him out.

When she reached the kitchen, she was surprised to see Crowley and her daughter sitting together civilly at the table. Though Crowley wasn't exactly nasty to Zoë, he didn't exactly get on very well with children. He barely tolerated those of an advanced age.

"What are you doing?" Naomi inquired as she walked toward the table.

Zoë smiled, counting what looked to be bills. "I just won $50, Mama!"

"Oh? How?" she asked, her eyes narrowing at Crowley, who tried his best to look innocent.

"Playing poker. Mr. Crowley taught me how to play."

Naomi went into panic mode and rounded on the seated demon. "He didn't ask you for your soul, did he?"

"What?" Zoë looked perplexed, then responded, "No, we only played for money. Besides angels don't have souls. If you're an angel and I'm your daughter, that means I'm at least half an angel. And you can't have only half a soul. So, I don't have a soul, do I?"

The angel smirked, knowing exactly what Zoë was getting at and wondered if Crowley somehow planted the idea in her head. "I told you we would discuss this when you were older. You needn't worry about souls for some time."

"Well, I tried, Mr. Crowley. She saw right through me. Can't get anything past this one," she gestured toward her mother with her thumb. Having gathered her money, she darted out of the kitchen.

"I can't believe you taught her how to play poker!" she yelled furiously.

"Why not? It's a friendly game!" He gathered the cards together and put them away.

"A friendly game? The last time we played poker, a man almost _lost his soul_!" This wasn't how she had intended to spend the morning. She simply wanted to make some coffee and disappear into her office to get started on her work for the day. Rubbing the back of her neck, she groaned and sighed.

Crowley took notice and stood up to massage her shoulders. "If it's any consolation, she beat me. But I think she cheated."

"You think everybody cheats. You said I cheated."

"Like mother, like daughter." He moved to rub her neck next. "How does that feel? Too much?"

"No, it feels good. Maybe use a little more pressure." Her shoulders dropped and her eyes rolled back into her head with pleasure. Her neck had been bothering her the last few days, popping and creaking whenever she moved it. Another downside to being human. A little moan quietly slipped through parted lips as his hands worked their magic.

"Feel better?" he asked in a lowered voice.

"Oh, yes," she moaned again. "Crowley...where have you been going? Where do you disappear to when you're not here? You were gone for four days in a row and before that, a whole week."

"I can't tell you, sweetheart." His hands moved to her shoulder blades where he kneaded the tension out of her muscles.

"That's it? You don't think I deserve an explanation?"

"No, I don't. It's imperative that my activities remain a secret for the time being."

Suddenly, she whisked around to face him. She crossed her arms and gave him her most acrimonious glare. "May I remind you that I, too, am working on something important, and if your 'activities' involve working against me, I will lead Abaddon straight to you and watch her rip you apart myself."

A shadow descended on Crowley's features. His lightened mood disappeared and he drew himself up and took a step toward Naomi. They were standing toe-to-toe.

"It's not in your best interest to threaten me, Naomi."

"It's not in your best interest to lie to me, Crowley."

"I haven't lied to you," he growled dangerously.

"You're not being forthcoming with any information about your activities. I find that unsettling, especially since I'm working night and day on something that could come crashing down around me because of you. And it wouldn't be the first time that has happened."

"All I will say is that what I'm doing has no impact on you or those feathered idiots you're trying to save."

"How do I know you're not lying to me?"

"I guess you'll just have to take that chance, won't you?" he shouted, his face close enough to hers that there was no room for anything to be between them. "And don't threaten me, Naomi. Ever! I will snap your neck without any hesitation."

Crowley stalked off to the basement just as Nadia appeared beside Naomi, one headache being replaced by another. "I know we're supposed to stay in the basement, yada yada yada, but Jonas and I just got messages from Malachi and a representative of Bartholomew saying that they'll agree to meet with you tonight. Last minute notice, I know, but that seems to be how you angels like to work. Paranoid, if you ask me. Anyway, I thought you'd want to know so you can stop accusing us of not doing our jobs."

Her eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. She honestly hadn't thought that either angel would respond to the memo she'd sent them weeks ago. She'd been preparing for the possibility of having to seek them out herself and forcing them into a meeting. This piece of news made her life marginally easier, even if it was short notice. Naomi supposed they wanted to meet sooner rather than later lest either side use it as an opportunity for an ambush.

"You know, we do everything you ask us to, even if we think it's a waste of time. Would it be too much to ask you to stop being such a bitch? You're so uptight and kind of obnoxious about rules and shit. Jonas and I, we get things done, even if it's not the way you like it. We might be more willing to do your dirty work if you'd stop threatening to kill us every other day. Crowley's right, you need to get laid."

Naomi's mouth disappeared into a thin line and her jaw twitched ominously. After hitting the button on the coffee maker a little harder than she meant to, inhaling deeply when a stream of that wonderfully caffeinated beverage began falling into the pot, she turned to face the all too often insolent demon. "I've had enough trouble out of one demon today. Don't make me take out my frustrations on you," she seethed, frustration pouring out of her.

"Right. Well, they'll be here at ten tonight. You want me and Jonas to pick up a veggie tray? Maybe some flowers? Or, I got it, exfoliate your pores?" Nadia glowered, not bothering to hide the disdain she felt at being given tasks she felt beneath her.

Naomi's usual headache took no time in descending on her, and she began rubbing her forehead for some kind of relief. She replied more hatefully than usual, "I suggest that you and every other demon get as far away from this house by ten o'clock if you value your lives because if Malachi and Bartholomew don't kill all of you, I will."

Nadia merely snorted and disappeared.

For the rest of the day, Naomi occupied herself with the impending meeting with the leaders of the opposing angelic factions. She would demand a peaceful settlement between them, as well as have them acknowledge her as their leader. Once they saw with their own eyes that she was still alive, she hoped they would agree to settle their differences and let her resume her leadership position. Malachi might not take issue with it, but she was sure Bartholomew would protest. He was power hungry and he would do anything to keep the little power he had acquired for himself. Besides, there was a bigger issue to tackle: Metatron. Homeless angels were still roaming the earth. They had to find a way back to Heaven and Metatron had to die, preferably in the most painful, bloodiest way possible. They could only do this if they were united. And to achieve unification, they would have to stop killing one another. Oh, and they might need the angel tablet, too, to figure out how to re-enter Heaven. Her headache just got even more excruciating. Why did everything have to be so complicated?

She wasn't sure what to expect, but she was resolute in her belief that by the end of the night she would once again be the leader.

* * *

Naomi checked her watch yet again. 9:35. The day had passed remarkably quickly with all the preparation she did for the meeting, but the last half hour had crept by. She paced in her office, every so often glancing out the window, but not really seeing what was there.

"Pacing won't solve anything. Take a break before they get here. You'll need it."

"Pacing calms my nerves."

"I didn't know you had nerves."

She turned to give him a little smile. "Me, neither. But this meeting is very important."

He leaned against her bookshelf, his hands in his pockets. "I don't recall you ever being so diplomatic. If they don't agree to your terms, just kill them."

"It's not that simple," she replied with a faint chuckle. "There's already so much chaos. Killing them wouldn't solve anything but induce more chaos." She stopped in front of her desk and leaned back into it. "I should check on Zoë."

"I've already checked on her. She's asleep. And I've already angel-proofed her room."

"Thank you," she said with genuine gratefulness as she checked her watch again.

"Stop checking your watch," he admonished lightly. "It'll only make the time drag."

"You shouldn't be here. If they find you here..." Her voice had taken on a softer, gentler quality.

"I'm not leaving you here alone," he insisted firmly. "I'll be in the basement...where you put me."

"Maybe eventually I'll let you have an office above ground," she grinned. "I think you should go, though. Angels have a no tolerance policy for demons."

"Except one angel."

That caused her to blush.

"I'm not leaving, Naomi. I already had to bring your feathered ass back from whatever afterlife angels go to once; I don't want to have to do it again."

They had skated around the issue of her resurrection a few times, and each time he'd told her, albeit in animosity, that he'd brought her back for the sole purpose of helping him defeat Abaddon. At times, she wondered if he were telling the truth or merely trying to cut her in the deepest way possible, as they tended to do to one another during an explosive fight. The few moments she spent thinking about things other than the angelic war going on, she thought about Crowley's reasoning for bringing her back. She had mostly figured it was for some self-serving reason, however they had both transformed into different beings in the few months she'd been held captive by Crowley. He was still the exasperating demon who knew how to push her buttons and antagonize her, but there was also something different about him, though she didn't know what. She'd witnessed it during their time together. At times he seemed almost _humane_.

"Why did you bring me back?" she pierced him with her questioning blue eyes. She wanted an honest answer, and she observed him critically as he spoke so that she could judge his face for trustworthiness.

His gaze was as piercing as her own. Without skipping a beat, he replied, "I briefly lived in a world without our fighting and bickering, and it wasn't as pleasant as I had imagined it to be during all those arguments we had when I wished you dead. Saying it is one thing; for it to be a reality is another."

"You're not going sentimental on me, are you?" she smiled warmly.

"Certainly not! I still hate you with a passion."

"I still hate you, too, you cockroach." She sighed and asked the next question that had troubled her mind for the better part of the day. "You're still not going to tell me what you do when you're not here, are you?"

"I can't, love. If anyone found out, it would put me and others at risk."

She nodded her head. It was enough. For now.

Upon checking her watch again, she saw that it said 9:55.

"You better go. They'll be here any minute." Her hand came to tenderly rest on his arm.

"Right. And Naomi? Less bureaucrat and more warrior, all right, darling?" He reached out to stroke her cheek before disappearing.

The simple gesture had caught her off-guard, startling her. It reminded her of old times-between all the fighting, that is. It didn't even register that he'd called her a bureaucrat, a title she absolutely abhorred. But she couldn't be thinking about that right now. Mentally preparing for her meeting with Malachi and Bartholomew, she remembered who she was: Naomi, a warrior of Heaven and guardian of souls. She was an effective leader and was well-respected.

Also, feared.

Pushing all thoughts of Crowley, Zoë, her gracelessness, and any other distractions to the back of her mind, she felt herself hardening against the weeks of fatigue and worry that had taken up residence inside her. Slowly, she reverted to the angel she was before Metatron tried to kill her. As close as she could get without her grace, anyway. She would tolerate no insubordination or contempt from either angel; she would give them no choice but to surrender to her completely. She would put her heavenly family back together, and together they would reclaim Heaven.

A knock at the door abruptly wrenched her from her thoughts. She straightened her jacket, cleared her throat, and took a deep breath. She was ready to take back control.


	7. Possession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Rating: M; this chapter is only for ADULTS 18+ for explicit sexual situations, language, and references to sexual situations. If you are under 18 years of age, please do not read any further.**
> 
>  
> 
>  **Author's Notes:** Chapter title comes from the song of the same name by Sarah McLachlan.

Crowley sat in the basement, steering absolutely clear of Naomi's upstairs office. He didn't want to completely vacate the premises because he didn't trust angels not to be assholes, to be quite honest, and he sure as hell wasn't going to leave Naomi alone with them. There was no telling what stunt they might try to pull. Naomi was all too capable of taking care of herself, and she would've been quick to remind him of that fact if she had even an inkling he was thinking otherwise, but seeing how her grace was encapsulated in a vial tucked into the breast pocket of his jacket, he didn't want to be too far lest he have to swoop in and assist her.

He knew she had been working non-stop on this plan of hers to save the angels. Why she wanted to save a bunch of savages who would as soon kill her rather than look at her, he had no idea. To him, it all seemed like a waste of resources. He saw the exhaustion in her blue eyes; shadows of fatigue and worry had penetrated the once feisty vivaciousness he'd witnessed in them. She'd also been incredibly short with him, even more so than usual. In some ways, the pressure generated by her toils had left her less guarded. Perhaps the weight of her work was causing cracks in her formerly impenetrable defenses. Coupled with her humanity, she presented a rawness to her character that Crowley had never before seen. She actually let him care for her when she'd pushed her body to its limit and she could go no further. It was something he was only to eager to do; a few weeks ago, he would've been driven by a more libidinous impulse to reach out and massage her shoulders or hold her in bed, and while he still felt a surge of lust when she was near, he was now driven by something else. But he really didn't like thinking about that "something else."

When he found his mind wandering about topics that made him uncomfortable where Naomi was concerned, he tried to divert his attention to other facets of her that he reluctantly confessed to finding admirable. One such facet that he was unfailingly impressed with was her ability to keep working as though she was an angel who didn't require sleep or food or restroom breaks (though it was also the cause of much of his frustration with her as he watched her push herself too hard). She worked harder half the demons in Hell, he realized with a long-suffering sigh. If only she could be coaxed into ruling Hell with him. But she had her nose stuck up the one god's ass. Her loyalty was laudable, as was her ambition. All that talent wasted just to have two wings and feathers. He didn't, however, appreciate her newfound propensity to drink his Craig when her work threatened to get the best of her. Woman could put it away faster than college kids on spring break. He couldn't count how many times over the last month he'd gone to pour himself a drink only to find the bottle empty.

As Naomi's humanity crept into his mind, so did thoughts of his own humanity (which he didn't like to think about). Though he was more or less the same demon he was before entering that church with Moose and Moose's brother, some things had changed. He wasn't sure he was happy about it; however, he began to witness firsthand the impact it was having on his dealings with Naomi. He nearly cringed when considering the possibility that he'd come to genuinely care for her. During the nights, he watched her sleep, knowing that she was plagued by nightmares. Occasionally, she made noises as she slept; there were also times she would wake with a violent start and Crowley would soothe her and help her to go back to sleep.

She didn't remember most of these nocturnal episodes, he was sure, as she never mentioned them.

He watched her as he'd done since that first time she'd ever laid down to sleep, sitting by her side, making sure no one disturbed her. The gentle motion of her chest as it rose and fell with her breathing, the fluttering of her eyes during the deepest part of her sleep, the way her arm hung off the side of the bed...it was all etched into his mind. He'd memorized every little sleepy movement, every little sound she made while asleep. When he was away on business, he curiously found that his thoughts often drifted to Naomi. One might consider it an act of love, but could demons love? Crowley wasn't sure he'd ever loved anything in his life. Naomi had always been about possessiveness and jealousy and pure, unadulterated lust. When he sat beside her all those nights, he felt possessive. She was his to watch over; after all, it had been him that had brought her back from death, sort of binding her to him. And now he was in possession of her grace.

He took the vial out of his breast pocket and held it up. The incandescent blue matter moved idly around its glass prison. He thought of Cain, and the demon's love for his wife, Colette. He'd loved the woman and left murder and torture behind for her. Cain was the leader of the bloody Knights of Hell and walked away from it all to be with her. Of course, he wouldn't walk away from his position as the King of Hell for Naomi; the notion of giving up his power for an angel was absurd. He enjoyed fighting with her and ruffling her feathers, and they'd had some amazing times fucking, but it wasn't, couldn't be, love.

He smiled slyly as he thought about the sex. Their couplings had been brutal, passionate, and very satisfactory. It typically involved ripped clothes, rumpled bedsheets, and broken beds. Her long lean body had been subjected to the barbaric ministrations of his hands and mouth, but she gave as good as she got. He had known angels were vicious, but he never imagined that it extended to the bedroom. That mouth of hers had almost killed him too many times to count.

Afterward, they would be too weary to move, and Crowley's arms never failed to find their way around Naomi, who used his bicep as a pillow, her long hair wild and wavy, tickling his chest. His hand always found its way to her breast, cradling it possessively, running a thumb lightly over the hardened nipple. He'd watch her eyes close and her mouth tighten into a contented smile as she let him fondle her. The smell that rose from her skin was still vivid in his mind, as he could almost smell it right there in his office. The saltiness of her sweat mixed with an understated floral scent that he only ever caught in bed or as she walked away from him, leaving a trail of it behind her. He didn't know what flower it was, as flowers weren't really his thing, but each time he smelled it, he'd wanted to figure it out. There was a brief second when Dean Winchester and he were visiting Cain that he could've swore Naomi was nearby as he'd caught a scent that was remarkably similar to the one that lingered after the angel. He'd paused to inhale deeply, finding that though it was close, it wasn't exactly the same.

This of course, was certainly not love. Those impetuous unions were to satisfy their own lust-driven whims. They were opportunities for him to dominate this so-called warrior of Heaven and watch her unravel as he defiled her over and over again.

She didn't belong to God or Heaven.

She belonged to him.

Yet, she belonged to nobody. She could get up from the bed and disappear for years at a time. This was a source of consternation for him. However, they found their way back to one another time and time again.

He sighed and replaced the vial in his pocket.

It most certainly wasn't love.

* * *

"Come in."

Naomi sat behind her desk, her back straight and her hands folded together neatly in her lap, waiting for the angel behind the door to enter. She was in control; there would be no power plays with Bartholomew and Malachi tonight. She had the power and she was going to keep the power, and woe be unto him who dared to say otherwise. Her blade lay in waiting in the top drawer of the desk.

The door slowly creaked open and Malachi walked through it. He looked around suspiciously, probably making sure this wasn't some kind of a trap. His uneasiness shone through his tough exterior as his eyes darted rapidly around the room.

"Welcome, Malachi. I'm glad you could make it."

"Naomi," he nodded his head in her direction. "How can you be sure we'll be safe? What if Bartholomew shows up with an army to murder us?"

"He won't," she answered curtly. "If he tries anything, I'll murder him and anyone he brings with him myself. But I do hope it won't come to that." She held his eyes steadily with her own, refusing to look away. Malachi fidgeted on his feet, but seemed to be a little more at ease. Naomi thought she saw a glimmer of respect in his gaze, but maybe it was just her own hope.

"There were stories that you'd been killed by Metatron," he stated gruffly, observing her with a critical eye.

"I am aware of those rumors, and I will address them when Bartholomew arrives. I don't like to repeat myself."

Malachi's eyes narrowed, but he didn't say anything. His fidgeting subsided and he came to stand motionlessly in front of her desk, studying her. She was well aware that he was sizing her up, trying to find a weakness he could use strategically against her should the opportunity arise. She never broke eye contact with him, letting him know silently that she was in charge of this meeting, of the angels, and she would not back down.

Their silent battle of wills was only interrupted several minutes later when an angel Naomi didn't recognize entered the room. Naomi saw Malachi's hand disappear quickly into his jacket.

"Who are you?" Naomi asked coldly.

The angel, using the vessel of a young, sandy-haired man stepped forward and spoke rather arrogantly, with an expression of utmost boredom on his smooth face, "Bartholomew had more important things to do this evening. I'm Jophiel and I'll be representing him in this meeting." He turned and threw Malachi a most scathing look.

Naomi was enraged that Bartholomew had so blatantly defied her in such a way. She was his superior; he had worked directly under her. She had trained him! Now he was too pompous to meet with her. To say she was displeased was an understatement.

"I'm not interested in doing business with his representative," she barked.

"Bartholomew can't be here, so you either speak me or speak to no one."

This one had a rare talent for getting under her skin; however, she'd dealt with Crowley all these years, and this twit had nothing on him.

Taking a deep breath, she decided to let it go for the time being. She would find Bartholomew herself and then they would have a private talk. Naomi felt her blade would most likely be involved in that meeting because she was already rather tired of dealing with him and she hadn't actually dealt with him yet. "All right. Let's get this meeting started. You both know why you're here. This war...this _slaughter_ of our own has to stop." She looked from Malachi to Jophiel, both of whom appeared impassive.

"We lost so many brothers and sisters when Castiel sought his vengeance that we can't afford to lose anymore. We should be focused on Metatron and returning to Heaven, not killing one another over a petty power game."

"Petty?" asked Malachi, indignation rising in his voice. "You think this is petty?"

"Yes," she shot back. "Whenever anyone kills another over power, it is petty. We are warriors; we listen to prayers and answer them. We are guardians and representatives of Heaven. But we are acting like, excuse my language, a bunch of dicks!"

At this, Jophiel raised his eyebrows. "And I guess that you want to take over, lead the angels?"

Naomi leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. "Let me let you in on something, Jophiel. I never stopped being the leader. There was a time when I was incapacitated after Metatron attacked me, but as you can both see, I am alive and well. I will not stand for any more slaughter and I will not stand for any mutiny. Do I make myself clear?"

When neither answered her, she rose out of her chair and leaned forward on her desk. She repeated herself slow, enunciating every syllable. "I said, do I make myself clear?"

Once again, she saw Malachi reach into his jacket. She thought he felt he was being surreptitious about it, but her keen senses were instantly alerted.

"If you're going to pull out that blade, Malachi, you better be ready to use it." Her eyes locked with his, challenging him, and only after a few moments did he let his hand drop.

"Naomi, these threats aren't going to get you what you want," Jophiel said in a most blasé fashion, pretending to stifle a quiet yawn.

She smirked. "Jophiel, I always get what I want. I'm unhappy with the way things have been run in my absence. And when I'm especially unhappy about something," her voice lowered to such a chilling degree that it produced a shudder in him that he tried desperately to hide, "no one ever has to ask."

"What does that mean?" the angel appeared taken aback.

"It means I'm done with the shameful excuse that Bartholomew, and you, Malachi, masquerade as leadership. You're so busy killing, when do you find the time to actually do any leading? It also means I am the leader and that I never stopped being the leader." She stepped from out behind her desk, clasping her hands behind her back. "It means that I am going to unite the angels and we're going to return to Heaven. It means that we're going to go after Metatron instead of each other. I can't do this alone. I want you to be apart of it. But if you are going to stand in my way and work against me, you will leave me no choice but to kill you. Do you understand me, Jophiel? Malachi?"

She glanced at one, then the other, waiting for their responses.

"Suppose we get behind you? What's in it for us?" asked Malachi.

"I let you live," she responded flatly, disappointed in the selfishness of the question. When did the angels get so self-serving?

"You deplore violence and slaughter, yet you threaten us and are willing to kill us at the drop of a hat?" Jophiel scoffed.

"You are angels of the Lord our God. Our _father_. We were made to do his work; to aid humans in their prayers. And you two are too busy fighting over who's the leader," she laughed scornfully. "Who's answering the prayers of the mother with cancer who wants to live to see her children grow up? Who's listening to the prayers of the little boy who wants his dad to come home from war? Tell me that. Who's coming up with a plan that will take us home to Heaven? Who? Tell me!" she shouted vehemently at them.

Malachi flinched almost imperceptibly and averted his eyes from her, unable to face her scrutiny. She was angry and bitter that the angels she had trained and guided herself had turned into a bunch of power-hungry, demon-like monsters she didn't recognize. Everything she had ever done had been for her brothers and sisters. She had made mistakes, but she had owned up to them and learned from them. She had admittedly made several errors in dealing with the Winchesters and Castiel; she had blundered so badly that had almost cost her her life. Her gravest mistake of all was failing to get her hands on the angel tablet. It had cost all of them Heaven, and her guilt had been overwhelming and at times, nearly unbearable. From now on, she would not be lacking in judgment. The situation with the angels was essentially her fault and she had to fix it. There was no other option, and she wouldn't let a couple of thick-headed angels stand in her way.

"How many more angels have to die before you stop the bloodshed?" she demanded of both angels in front of her.

Jophiel snidely interrupted her, which only served to heighten her outrage. "Bartholomew isn't going to defer to you simply because you say so. He is going to fight because when you were, as you say, 'incapacitated' he stepped up to the plate, and there are many who think he's doing a fine job. The only reason there's a war is because of that thug. He refuses to acknowledge that Bartholomew rightfully took over where you left off-"

"I refuse to acknowledge bad leadership! Bartholomew considers himself above angels like us; he thinks he's better. He doesn't care what we think; he just wants the power and he's killing us to get it!" Malachi interjected.

"And don't you want the power, too?" Jophiel smirked, his words wrapped in haughtiness.

"It's not about the power! Not really! It's about being powerless to someone who would rather see you dead than standing next to him in the same room!"

"You never even gave him a chance!"

"I don't need to. I know who he is and what he stands for," Malachi growled dangerously.

"Well, maybe there are some angels who are better than others. And you just keep proving that, Malachi."

"Enough!" Naomi threw Jophiel hard against the wall, then pulled him off the ground by the lapels of his suit. Her teeth were bared like a rabid dog; her face was only inches from his, so close she could feel his quickened breath warm on her cheek. While he attempted to remain unflappable, traces of panic in his eyes belied the expression on his face. She yelled loud enough that her voice reverberated throughout her office. "I have had enough of you and your condescension for your brothers and sisters. I'm done talking to you. You go back and tell Bartholomew I'm coming for him. I am back and I am the leader, not Bartholomew. If he refuses to stop this senseless violence, I will kill him myself!"

She abruptly let go of him and he fell to the floor with a thud.

"Get out of my sight!" she screamed at him. He looked up at her and she saw fear in his eyes before he suddenly vanished.

She turned to Malachi, who still stood tall, almost challengingly. He eyed her critically as she returned to her desk and sat down.

Pausing to regard him thoughtfully, she then proceeded. "I do not want to kill anyone, I promise you. There is no justification for murder unless, and only unless, it prevents the loss of more lives. I do not want to kill Bartholomew. Both you and he have let this get out of hand and now I'm trying to clean up your mess."

He stared at her with a stony countenance. He was on his feet and deathly still.

"You're in a difficult position, Malachi. Trust is a difficult thing to have during these uncertain times, but I'm asking you to go out on a limb and to trust me. I'm asking you to remember what I stand for, to remember what I've accomplished. I have made several mistakes, one of them Bartholomew. I never, ever should have let him be my second-in-command. But I don't make it a habit of repeating my mistakes."

She sighed, suddenly tired. After a period of silence and consideration, Malachi spoke up. "I believe you. I remember who you are, Naomi. You were always fair and treated us equally. You showed no one favor, and under you, there was peace."

"Thank you, Malachi," she said sincerely.

"I will stand down to stand with you. Contrary to what you may believe, I don't want anymore bloodshed. I don't want anymore deaths on my hands."

She nodded. "I appreciate that."

"I need you to answer something for me, though. My curiosity is getting the better of me."

Naomi tilted her head, appraising him. "Go ahead."

"Why are you working with demons? They are filth. They cannot be trusted. Why would you entrust one to deliver a letter from you?"

She sat up, clasping her hands together on top of her desk. "Jonas and Nadia are running from a powerful demon named Agiel who is working on behalf of Abaddon, a Knight of Hell. I ran into her a few weeks ago; she is determined to take over Hell and make the angels bow to her, another reason I want the angels united and returned to Heaven. Anyway, in exchange for protection, they run errands for me and I delegate any minor, small tasks to them. I don't trust them as far as I can throw them, but they know if they mess up, they'll have to deal with me. And they don't want that." She gave him a small, thin-lipped smile and he responded with one of his own.

"I must go," he said, seeming to accept that explanation as satisfactory. "I'll explain to the others what's happened. I'll talk to them. They will want to meet you before declaring their loyalty..."

"I think that can be arranged."

"It will take a while to earn their trust, but I don't think it'll be a problem. Eventually."

Naomi watched him as he disappeared from her office. There was no time to waste. It was after eleven o'clock and she had more work to do, so she delved right into it.

* * *

Zoë had awoken to her mother's muffled shouting. She couldn't make out the words, but she was sure it wasn't anything good. Her mother was using a tone of voice unfamiliar and hostile to her; she wasn't at all comfortable hearing it. Mr. Crowley had warned her that her mother was expecting a couple of visitors and not to be surprised if she heard the sounds of someone being murdered coming from her office.

"Your mother has a temper," he'd told her, making her giggle.

She thought he'd been joking.

Her bedroom was dark and she didn't like hearing her mother's raised voice. Mr. Crowley had told her vaguely what was going on, but he didn't go into any detail. She was frightened for her mother, but also frightened for herself. She fervently wished things could go back to the way they were before her mother had disappeared. Ever since she'd arrived here, her mother had done nothing but work. It wasn't that Zoë felt completely ignored, as Naomi made sure all the practical things had been taken care of where her daughter was concerned, but she missed talking with her mama. She missed the conversations they used to have on her way to school and over dinner. She missed snuggling with her on the couch while they watched television and she missed having her mother read to her before bedtime. She even kind of missed the arguments they had over the stupidest things, like clothing Naomi thought was too mature for her daughter to wear or the issue of wearing lip gloss (which, according to Zoë, was merely an enhancement product, not technically make-up).

Zoë had asked her mother to read to her once just after Mr. Crowley had brought her here, but she'd been too busy. She did seem sorry, though, as her eyes had looked sad as she tucked Zoë in that night. The girl didn't ask for stories anymore; she didn't want her mother to feel bad. Apparently, her mama was a very important figure, and it was hard getting used to that idea.

She tried very hard not to impose on her mother, though she began to wonder if her mother would ever be just hers again. She missed that. It had always been just the two of them, and now it seemed as though her mama belonged to everyone else, but her.

And she'd felt a little jealous.

When she had walked into her mama's room that morning and found Mr. Crowley there, she'd felt just a tiny bit jealous, as Naomi hadn't had a lot of time for her, but yet she'd obviously found time to spend with Mr. Crowley. But then he'd told her that her mother had had a nightmare and that he'd made everything better. The jealousy deflated almost instantly. He said he'd just been annoying her mama, but she could tell it was a lie and that he was really just being protective of her. Zoë could appreciate that because she was protective of her, too.

No matter how much she liked Mr. Crowley, though, Zoë couldn't help but feel possessive of her mother. Her pretty, smart, sometimes scary mother was all hers and being forced to share her with everyone else had upset her on a frequent basis. Mr. Crowley seemed to understand when she had a hard time refraining from throwing a tantrum and demanding Naomi's attention. She knew her mother loved her; that was never a question. Mr. Crowley had explained that there were serious things going on right now, and they both were working to resolve it so everything could go back to normal.

And normal to Zoë was having her mother all to herself. However, she could possibly make room for Mr. Crowley, too. She liked him for some odd reason, and she was sure that she was growing on him, as well.

Hearing more yelling accompanied by a thud, Zoë pulled her blanket tightly over her head. The dark, the shouting, and the strange noises were not a good combination. Remembering that Mr. Crowley had told her she could summon him if she felt scared, she whispered his name and waited. She didn't think it would work, then the sound of his voice sliced right through the noises that were frightening her.

"Aren't you supposed to be asleep?" He tugged on the blanket until her head was visible. She peeked up at him.

"I don't like the shouting."

"You've never heard your mother shout before?" he laughed.

"Well, yeah, but she's never sounded _that_ mad. I mean, she sounds so angry." Zoë bit her lip.

"She's shouted at me like that plenty of times." He snapped his fingers and a chair appeared beside the bed. He sat down. "And I've shouted at her like that, too."

"Really? Why?"

"We like to shout at each other. It's good for the soul."

Rolling her eyes, she responded, "But you and Mama don't have souls."

This child. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He answered her with an all too familiar irritability, "It's a figure of speech. _If we had souls_ they'd be bloody fantastic after all the shouting we've done at each other!"

Zoë sat up in bed and sighed. "I've been doing some more thinking about you and Mama..."

"Oh, holy mother of sin." It was Crowley's turn to roll his eyes.

"You don't even know what I'm gonna say!" she defiantly jerked her chin up, crossing her arms.

Not wanting to be the recipient of Little Naomi's scorn, he bowed slightly and stuck out his hand in a gesture urging her to continue.

"One time, when I was in third grade," she began, "this boy named Connor was very, very mean to me. I mean, seriously mean."

"Seriously?"

Zoë threw him a look of disdain that was so cutting he let the grin fall from his face and muttered for her to go on.

"Anyway, Connor wouldn't leave me alone. One day at school, we were going to the library and he got behind me in line and pulled my hair! Another time, just after lunch, we had to wash our hands and instead of drying them off, he shook them right in front of me, getting me all wet! Then at lunch one day, I went to sit down with my tray and he pulled the chair out from under me! I ended up on the floor and everybody laughed."

Crowley narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, visibly irked. "Did you hit the little brat? I'm sure you could've taken him."

"No, Mama would've killed me! After I knocked a kid's two front teeth out in first grade, she told me that if she ever caught me fighting again, I'd be in very serious trouble."

"You knocked a kid's teeth out?" Crowley was shocked and rather impressed.

"Yeah, she was making fun of me. I tried to ignore her, but then she started following me around on the playground. Wherever I went, there she was! So, one time I turned around and punched her right in the mouth. She swallowed her teeth, but they came out a couple of days later, if you know what I mean."

He couldn't help it; he burst into raucous laughter. He felt a strange mixture of pride and smugness and wished he could've seen Naomi's face when she was told her daughter had knocked out a fellow classmate's teeth. She would've most likely been horrified and mad as hell. And knowing Zoë, the girl would've told her mother in her most honest and matter-of-fact tone how and why this all happened. And Naomi would've been completely exasperated.

"But we're getting off the subject, Mr. Crowley. Back to my original point, Connor bothered me and bothered me. And I really did want to punch him, but I knew I couldn't. Finally, I went to Mama and told her what was going on. She said that sometimes people do mean things to a person because they like them, but don't know how to show it in any other way."

Crowley knew where this conversation was headed and opened his mouth, but Zoë interrupted him.

"I thought she was crazy, and I was freaked out that a yucky boy like Connor liked me! I mean...EW! He always picked his nose during history and didn't think anyone could see. But everybody saw. Anyway, I tried to keep out of his way, even after Mama spoke with my teacher. Then on Valentine's Day, he gave me a card and told me that he liked me! It was so embarrassing!" Her face twisted into a look of total horror.

"Believe me...your mother and I do not shout at each other because we have some secret longing for one another. We shout at each other because we do not like each other very much."

"Uh huh," she grinned, not believing a word he said.

"It's true! I can't stand Naomi! She brings out the worst in me!"

"You're a demon, Mr. Crowley; there just aren't any good parts to bring out."

"Shush, you, or I'll turn you into a toad."

"You pick on Mama because you have a crush on her, and you won't tell her that you like her. And she is totally in love with you and can't tell you because-"

"-she's Naomi," Crowley finished for her.

"Pretty much."

"And you know all this how?" he asked skeptically.

"I'm very observant," she grinned.

He laughed as he stood. "You should be sleeping. It's late, and I've had enough of your psychobabble for tonight."

"You'll think about it, though, because you know I'm right," she smirked. "So, the next time Mama's being a twatwaffle to you, instead of arguing with her and shouting, just surprise-kiss her, ok?"

He was forming a response of protest, but got sidetracked. "Twatwaffle? Really?"

"Promise me?" Her round blue eyes looked up at him as she crawled under her blanket, bringing it up to her chin.

"I am not promising a _nything_. Especially _that_." He turned to leave, but then quickly spun back around. "By the way, the kid whose teeth you knocked out...you said she was making fun of you...what did she say?"

Zoë became quiet for a moment and let out a big breath of air she'd been holding. "She-she'd asked me who my father was. I told her I didn't know because I'd never met him. She called me names and made fun of me for not having a dad. Like it was my fault I don't have one."

"Of course not," he found himself saying softer than anything he'd ever said before. "Maybe some day..."

"I don't care about him anymore," she was quick to respond. "I don't care if I ever meet him." There was a brief pause before she spoke again and asked him in a whisper that was wrapped in a timber of childish neediness borne of latent insecurity, "Would you tell me a story? Mama used to tell them to me, but she got busy..."

All Crowley could see of the girl were her eyes and her dark hair; everything else was masked by her blanket. If he didn't know any better, he might've thought he was looking at a younger version of Naomi. It was odd, as when he first met the child, he could barely tolerate her. But somehow she'd managed to grow on him. And he wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing. He wasn't even sure if he liked it or not. Zoë didn't really give him a choice.

Returning to the chair by her bed, he sat down. "I am not particularly good at telling stories."

"Tell me about when you first met my mother." She yawned and settled her head on her pillow, finding a comfortable spot.

Now that was an easy story to tell as Crowley was all too familiar with the memory of the first time he'd seen Naomi all those years ago when they were gods in Mesopotamia. Obviously, he'd have to tell her the abridged, G-rated version of events, but that wouldn't be a problem. He'd simply alter the details a bit to make it more...child-friendly. "I first saw your mother many, many, many years ago on an especially hot day; it was so hot that people were going to the river to bathe and cool down, as well as to worship one of their goddesses. Your mother was there."

Zoë's head popped up. "Ew, you pervert! You were watching my mother bathe?"

"She had her clothes on!" he lied.

"Liar." She returned to her spot on the pillow. "Mr. Crowley, I don't want to know any personal details about you and Mama. Please spare me."

"It's not personal! She had her clothes on!"

"Who bathes in the river in their clothes on a hot day?" she doubted.

"Your mother!" he yelled in sheer annoyance. God, this child was exhausting. "Who's telling this story, me or you?"

"Go on," she sighed and acquiesced.

"Thank you. As I said, Naomi was in the river _fully clothed_ cooling herself off. She turned around and saw me sitting on the bank."

"And what did she say?" asked Zoë, now full of curiosity about this first meeting between her mother and Mr. Crowley.

"She said, 'What do you think you're doing sitting there watching us bathe?'"

"See? Even my mother thought you were a pervert."

"Will you shut up and let me finish the story?" he shouted even louder than before.

"Fine, be my guest. But try not to corrupt my 11-year old mind, will you?"

"You called your mother a twatwaffle," he snorted. "And you're worried about _me_ corrupting you?"

"Well, she can be a twatwaffle sometimes."

"...at least someone else sees it. The first day we met, she was quite the twatwaffle. She was very displeased at my presence, so I stayed a bit longer until she marched up the bank where I was sitting and demanded I leave. I believe that was the start of our first fight."

Crowley continued to tell his story until he glanced over and saw the little girl sleeping soundly. Careful not to wake her, he pulled her blanket snugly around her, taking one last look at her peaceful form. She really wasn't all that bad when she was asleep, mostly because she couldn't possibly do anything to infuriate him. With a snap of his fingers, he disappeared.

* * *

The house was quiet, she noticed as she removed her jacket and laid it on the back of a chair in her bedroom. It was so quiet she could hear the little creaks and moans of the house as it settled on its foundation. She wished her mind could steal some of that peace; it was still reeling from her meeting with Malachi and Jophiel. And then she'd done some work, which never seemed to end. She wasn't sure she could even sleep. There was too much to think about. Her grace could solve this problem so easily. She sighed while her fingers nimbly unbuttoned her shirt.

Selfishly, she wondered what it would feel like to simply forget everything for a little while, to not have a single thought of angels, demons, or any other responsibilities swirling around in her mind, demanding her attention. Briefly, she contemplated finding Crowley and requesting another massage. Her bones ached and her muscles were beginning to rebel from being locked in the same position 10 to 12 hours a day. Catching her reflection in the mirror, she appeared to have lost some weight. Her shoulders jutted out a bit sharper than normal and her waist had obviously shrunk. She had thought her clothes had felt looser. She just hadn't any time to notice such mundane things. That was the way life had been lately, neglecting all the little things until the few seconds she got to herself, then they all descended upon her at once.

Stretching her neck made it crack; it was but a small relief. If she were being perfectly frank with herself, she wasn't sure how much longer she could keep up this grueling schedule. Never, ever would she admit defeat, though; she would work until it killed her. Unless she could somehow talk Crowley into returning her grace. It was the more practical solution. Damn that contract she signed!

Crowley had been acting differently around her as of late, almost caring. Maybe the pressure of his responsibilities were getting to him, too. He was oddly considerate of her, checking on her to see if she was all right. He'd even been paying attention to Zoë more, which was puzzling since he loathed children. Even more puzzling was that Zoë liked him back. They were quite a pair, bantering and yelling back and forth. If she didn't know any better, she might say that Crowley had some redeeming points.

 _Crowley_ , she thought as she tried to stretch the tense muscles of her back. What she wouldn't give for his hands to be on her, working out the tension.

She was yanked from her reverie when she received an unexpected knock at her bedroom door. The only person who ever knocked was Zoë. Holding her shirt closed, she called for her daughter to come in.

However, it wasn't her daughter.

"Did you actually just knock on my door?" she asked, the wonderment showing clearly on her face.

"I did," responded Crowley with a smirk.

"And yet the world did not end."

"Are you disappointed?"

"I still haven't recovered from the last apocalypse, so no."

"Let me help you with that," he offered and moved to stand behind her. Gently, he pulled her shirt off her, and though she made a small noise of protest, she gave in. He slung it over her jacket. "How did it go with the feathered assholes?"

"I think we made a little progress. Bartholomew didn't show up. He sent a _representative_ named Jophiel instead."

"Figures. Of all the angels, he's the most arrogant with the least reason to be. The only thing he ever achieved was being your underling. I hardly think that a good reason for him to all the sudden be too important to meet with his boss." He helped her out of her pants, which joined the rest of her clothes on the chair, leaving her clad in a bra and underwear.

"That's Bartholomew for you. I don't think he thinks of me as his boss any longer. Little does he know," she chuckled faintly.

Crowley helped himself to her drawer and took out a nightgown.

"Now you're helping yourself to my underwear drawer?" She raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms in front of her. "So much for maintaining a little mystery."

He grinned mischievously at the red silk nightgown he'd found. "I've seen you in less."

"You know all the right things to do to get under my skin." In a couple of strides, she reached him and grabbed the nightgown, throwing it back in the drawer after a sudden irritability came over her.

"And what was wrong with that?"

"It's not appropriate to sleep in," she shot back, sifting through her pajamas, trying to find something suitable.

"Mmmm, maybe you should use it for some other purpose then." With a snap of his fingers, she was wearing it. He didn't bother hiding the fact that he was ogling her. His eyes traveled up her legs to her chest, then to her face where he was met with a look that teetered between fury and disgust.

"It is two o'clock in the morning, Crowley. I'm absolutely drained and not in the mood to play games with you."

"I don't want to play games, Naomi."

"Then why are you here?" she demanded.

He threw his hands up in the air. "I just wanted to know how your meeting went! I was concerned, all right? I wanted to make sure you were ok!"

"Sure." She snapped in disbelief. "There must be an ulterior motive. Since when do you care about anything other than yourself?"

"I can't tell whether you're merely tired or just being yourself," he commented snidely.

"No one asked you to come in here!"

"I believe you did. You said 'come in' when I knocked."

The lack of sleep shortened her already short fuse and Crowley saw her tighten her fists. He laughed inwardly at all the things she would've already done to him had she been in possession of her grace.

"You miserable ass!" she spat through her tightly clenched teeth, closing the distance between them. "I would love to cut you open and remove all your organs one by one-"

"Careful, darling, you'll turn me on with such talk-"

"-and then I'd put you all back together and do it again slower than before-"

As Naomi busied herself with spewing her venom, Crowley remembered the words of that 11-year old angel spawn. He hated to admit it, but the kid might've been on to something.

Suddenly, he yanked Naomi toward him, seeing her eyes go wide before covering mouth with his own. She tried to resist, tried pushing him off her and refusing to open her mouth for him, but he held her against him with a strength she couldn't fight. As long as his mouth was on hers, she couldn't speak. What an unintentional blessing.

It took a few minutes, but she stopped struggling, though her body was still rigid. He took the opportunity to press small, delicate open-mouth kisses upon her soft lips, starting at one corner and languidly making his way toward the other. When he'd finished with her mouth, his lips trailed to her neck where his tongue made a wet mess all over the sensitive skin there. Her resistance lessened, he noticed, as her body became heavier in his arms. His nose rested just under her ear where he inhaled deeply, savoring her familiar floral scent. It drove him wild with desire, though he was supposed to be the one in control as he pushed Naomi to the brink of madness with the things he had planned for her body.

Lifting her easily, he made brisk work of carrying her to the bed where she soon found herself on her back. He snapped his fingers and the nightie disappeared from her body, revealing to him her lovely form. He took a moment to stare greedily, letting his eyes get reacquainted with her nakedness. It had been so long since he last feasted on her that he was salivating with anticipation. His dick hardened inside his pants.

"I hate you," she hissed hoarsely. Her skin flushed under the intensity of his gaze. She could end this right now, tell him to get the hell out of her room. That would've been the proper thing to do. It would be what she had expected herself to do. But as she lay exposed to his scrutiny, she found herself wanting to be ravished. To feel him close to her...she wanted the comfort the contact would bring her.

"I know, love. I know." No protestations, no comeback. She was surprised at his reluctance to engage in their usual bedroom banter which had acted as a sort of foreplay in the past and subsequently led to so many heated sexual encounters. He threw off his jacket and began undoing the buttons of his shirt when Naomi sat up, smacking away his hands. She gave him a lascivious grin and ripped the shirt open, flinging buttons to all corners of the room. She found his chest with her mouth and scraped her teeth over the skin, biting just hard enough to send a shock of pleasurable pain to his groin, then soothing it with a wet kiss. Meanwhile, her hands had deftly freed him from the confines of his pants, leaving him naked before her. She bent down and placed a kiss to the tip of his penis, briefly taking it into her mouth.

He rumbled contentedly, his voice low and thick. "Vixen. You change your mind as quickly as the wind changes direction."

"I need to work out some frustration," she looked up at him coquettishly, her tongue darting out to lick her lips swollen red with arousal. "Nothing else is doing the trick..."

"We have weeks and weeks of frustration to work out, sweetheart. And I'm all too happy to help. I swear, I'm not going to stop until your legs are shaking and the neighbors know my name...and the nearest neighbors are six miles away." He crawled on top of her unhurriedly and pushed her back onto the bed. Their kisses were fervid and passionate; they gasped for breath, not wanting to break the connection between their mouths any longer than necessary.

"This changes nothing, dear," she panted as he moved down to lavish attention on her breasts with his tongue and hand.

"This changes everything," he growled. He was quieted when his mouth formed a suction around her nipple, eliciting a loud, guttural moan from the angel beneath him. Content with the positive response he received, he latched on and suckled in a cadence that she found all too pleasurable. He watched as the supple skin of her breast rippled with the rhythmic movements of his mouth. She tried not to writhe; she didn't want to give him that power. His eyes told her that he knew what he was doing to her. They looked all too delighted at what was happening. Her hips involuntarily came off the bed and her legs came apart.

"Patience, Naomi," he released her nipple and cooed in a voice that she was sure would be her undoing; she could hear that it wasn't untouched by the passion they were generating.

"You're torturing me," she rasped.

"You've tortured me for decades."

"We shouldn't be doing this." Immediately, she felt his fingers trace the opening between her legs, teasing the flesh there with promises of adoration. She grabbed the bedsheets violently in her hands and made a strangling noise.

Slamming her eyes shut, she threw her head back in some kind of excessive ecstasy. He was claiming her. Her little noises, the responses of her body to his ministrations...he was claiming it all. She felt his tongue dip into her navel, licking it sensuously as his grip on her hips tightened, restricting their movement. When she whimpered helplessly, he laughed against her belly.

His head lowered until it was nestled between her legs. The first kiss he placed there produced such a blissful feeling that the only way she could articulate it was with a half-moan half-sob. Her body ached for more, but Crowley was intent on taking his sweet time watching her come undone.

"This is what you do to me, Naomi," he spoke between the intimate kisses he placed around her entrance. "Every declaration of hate...every glare...every threat...you wind me up. All I have of you are memories. Very good memories, might I add, but I can't do much with just memories." He slipped his tongue inside and instantly went to work ravishing her, causing her to cry out. He kept a firm hold on her thighs, so firm that small bruises began forming beneath his fingers, while he lapped hungrily at the evidence of her arousal.

"Crowley..." she groaned, urging him on, wanting more and more. Warmth collected and pulsated right where he was happily assaulting her, and he could feel her tighten around him. She could think of nothing else except of what was happening to her.

Pulling away just as her arousal was climbing, he kissed his way back to her mouth. She could taste herself on him, making little noises of protest as she wrapped her legs around one of his, rubbing against him, trying to recreate the blissful feeling he was inducing only moments before. She mourned the loss of contact. It must have shown on her face because Crowley chuckled and leaned down to kiss her.

"Careful, sweetheart, you're wickedness is showing. Seems like you do want this, after all."

"You're punishing me," she pouted, sweeping her sweaty bangs to the side with a trembling hand. Little pearls of perspiration sat atop her skin; Crowley felt it as he glided along her body, allowing his own sweat to mingle with hers.

"Now, what would give you that idea?" His hands once again found her soft breasts. Their eyes met; raising off the bed enough so she could reach him, she wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a kiss that burned with affection, an element not typical of their sexual encounters. It was something new and strange, but both parties were relishing the feeling, even if Crowley was unsure what to make of it.

Naomi took advantage of his momentary disconcertion to flip them over. With a self-satisfied smirk, she climbed on top of him, resting her hands on his chest for leverage.

"This was certainly unexpected," he smiled with a salacious gleam in his eyes. Caressing her arms tenderly, he leered at her breasts, which perched tauntingly on her chest.

"I like to keep things interesting and exciting." Her finger nails scratched down his chest; her hips rocked against his.

"I know I'm definitely excited," he responded, alluding to his swollen, stiff member that was currently poking Naomi in the ass.

"Mmm, good."

"You're beautiful," he said without thought. He'd never told her before; it just wasn't something that ever needed to be said during their prior vigorous fucks. This was the most they'd talked during sex ever. It was also the most painstakingly slow sex they'd ever had.

It would be entirely misleading to say that he wasn't enjoying it.

"I bet you tell that to all the angels you sleep with." The corner of her mouth turned up in amusement, her hips continuing their rhythmic dance against him.

"I can only handle one angel per lifetime, and unfortunately, you're it. ... Ouch!" he barked as she clawed his chest, leaving an angry trail of red marks.

"I'm so sorry you got stuck with me," she replied sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

"It could be worse. I could've been stuck with Castiel," he said as he reached around and squeezed her ass with both his hands, turning her giggles into a groan.

"I'm glad you see me as the better choice." Crowley was surprised when he thought he saw a twinkle in her eyes. She leaned over to kiss his wounds then ground her ass tantalizingly against his erection.

If she wasn't careful, he'd come right then. The sight of her on top of him was enough to get him off, if he were being honest. He longed to be inside her. He wanted to put his arms around her and hold her close. He wanted to listen to the beating of her heart. He wanted to hold her again, as he'd done just a day ago.

With a strained voice, he almost begged her, "Naomi, enough talk. I need some relief." He gestured to his neglected cock.

"What did you tell me about patience?"

"Demons don't have virtues, darling."

Lifting herself off him, she wrapped her velvety fingers around him, guiding him inside her slowly, letting her body adjust itself around his girth. It had been a long time since they'd last joined like this that she needed the moment to allow herself to stretch around him.

They both stilled, savoring the feel of one another. Then, without another word, Naomi began moving against him. It was a sweet, pleasurable feeling for them. Crowley's eyes were open just enough to see her breasts bouncing with her movements. He took them in his hands, not able to resist. It made Naomi move faster.

Both made inarticulate noises, uttering nonsensical words not discernible to either themselves or each other. The familiar pressure was building in him and he felt Naomi's inner walls clench his member, milking it for all it was worth. Their moans and groans filled the air around them. Their breathing hitched and Naomi threw her head back and arched her spine as a feeling of euphoria spread over her. He met her thrust for thrust, aching for release.

"Come on, darling...come for me. That's it...come for me."

She opened her eyes to look right into his. They were hooded and heavy-lidded. Her lips were slightly parted and her hair disheveled. The sight of her drove him over the edge. Unable to hold back any longer, he exploded deep inside her with her name on his lips. She kept moving with a frantic pace and finally, he felt her contract around him, taking him deeper inside her than he already was. Gradually, she slowed until she collapsed on top of him. Sated and spent, they gasped for air, trying to catch their breath.

The enormity of what they'd just done hit her as she returned to earth and was capable of actual thought again. She had sworn it would never happen again. Nothing good ever became of these sexual interludes; soon, they'd descend into their usual pattern of fighting and hurting one another, just like always. Then they would part for an indeterminable amount of time, with her trying to avoid crossing his path. What was it about him that made her so defenseless? She thought about that as she felt him run a hand tenderly through her hair. That was new, too.

There's been several new developments regarding sex since the last time they'd found themselves in this situation. It was... _different_. It was nice. Her hand absentmindedly began rubbing his chest in little circles. Before long, she raised her head to look at him, her chin resting against him.

"Want me to get off you?" she asked. She shifted, preparing to lift herself off him, but he put a flat hand against her bare back, keeping her in place.

"No. Stay," he said in an unfamiliar tone that was mellowed with something that felt like feelings. He knew he sounded odd, but he didn't much care at the moment. This must be the post-coital glow that humans went on and on about that he'd never fully indulged in himself. He liked the feeling of her weight on top of him, as well as her damp hair as he let it slip through his fingers.

He felt a finger trace the lines in the tattoo on his upper arm. "I think I'm getting used to these."

"I didn't know you hadn't liked them, but that sounds about right," he chuckled.

"Not at first, no. But I think they add to your appeal," she grinned against his skin then leaned up to kiss him languidly, pulling at his bottom lip with her teeth.

"Mmm, I could get used to this," he mused.

"An angel and demon in bed together. What is the world coming to?" she joked.

"You just made a joke," he stated flatly.

"I do that from time to time, yes."

"You never do it in front of me," he pouted.

"Because you spend too much time trying to fight with me." She slapped his shoulder playfully.

"I do not. You make it your mission to antagonize me!"

The fact that his hand was caressing her back from her shoulders down to the swell of her ass and back up indicated that he wasn't too terribly upset.

"I wouldn't antagonize you if you wouldn't try and thwart my plans, force me to sign a contract essentially binding me to you for the duration of this stand-off between you and Abaddon, and hold my grace hostage!"

"Shhhh," he soothed, but Naomi was getting riled up again.

"What do you mean 'sh'? It's true; I am a prisoner in my own home! And yet you accuse _me_ of antagonizing you!" She started to sit up, but Crowley pulled her down again.

"Naomi?" he sighed in resignation. "Stop being such a twatwaffle."

She wondered if she'd heard him correctly; on her face was an expression of utmost bewilderment. "Wh-what did you just call me?"

"A twatwaffle," he responded evenly. "You're being a twatwaffle."

"I am not! ... I don't even know what that is!" she snapped.

"As endearing as you are when you go all combative on me, right now, I'm much prefer you pliant and impressionable." He turned them over, and wrapped his arms around her. Her body was still resting against his, her hair splayed on the white pillow cushioning her head.

"I have never been and never will be 'pliant and impressionable.'"

He kissed her, shutting her up. A noise of discontent hummed in the back of her throat, but quickly burned away. Snaking her arms around him, her reticence turned into eagerness.

Pliant and impressionable, indeed.


	8. Never Gonna Give You Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Rating: M; this chapter is only for ADULTS 18+ for language and references to sexual situations.**
> 
>  
> 
>  **Author's Notes:** Chapter title comes from the song of the same name by The Black Keys.

When she awoke that bright and sunny morning, she felt more rested than she had in ages even though she'd only been asleep a mere three hours or so. She'd been kept up until nearly dawn, having been subjected to the passionate, fervid ministrations of her sometimes lover and constant antagonist. Her thighs ached with the pleasant tenderness of overuse; her skin burned with the memory of his hands caressing her, grabbing her. They'd go a round, stop to rest, work themselves into a frenzy with kisses and touches, then go another round.

Their intimacy had acquired a certain quality that had been lacking in their previous encounters. Naomi wondered if it had anything to do with the absence of her grace. She was essentially human, with all the drives and emotional capabilities of one; however, sex appeared to have catapulted her senses to a whole new level. The contrast between this time versus their previous times together was all too salient. The world around her seemed to be reborn in rich, vivid colors that saturated her vision. The taste of the smoky Craig lingered on her tongue after kissing vestiges of it off Crowley's mouth; it beguiled her palate, making her heady as though she'd consumed several bottles of it.

Speaking of Crowley, he'd been acting very peculiar. There were moments when they were entangled in one another that he seemed almost _caring_. He'd held her with a gentleness that was antithetical to his nature. The way he'd handled her during sex, a combination of dominance and delicacy, had provoked her more bellicose tendencies. She was used to leading and getting her own way. When he sensed that she was trying to overpower him to gain control over their coupling, it only served to heighten his arousal; he'd quelled her intentions with pleasure so all encompassing it was sinful. There were times she could do nothing but simply stop fighting for control and let him seduce her into a tenacious bliss.

Their sex also made her feel things. Not just of the physical kind, but the mental kind. And Naomi, being a stranger to such sensations even after spending the past several weeks being human, was rendered confused at these complicated things she'd come to know as feelings. A whole slew of emotions flooded her all at once. She never had to contend with such things before! All she knew was that when she came while in Crowley's arms after a round of very satisfying sex, she found herself kissing him slowly and holding onto him, not wanting to break the connection. He accommodated her without so much as batting an eye or letting loose with a snarky comment, for which she was grateful. Astonished, but grateful. She woke up positively satisfied.

And cosily ensconced by the demon sharing her bed.

Shifting slightly where she lay cocooned in a pair of arms, she became aware of the hand that was cupping her breast gently, yet possessively. She smiled. His breath blew warm on the nape of her neck.

"Good morning." The husky words hovered between his lips and the smooth skin of her neck as he lowered his mouth for a kiss. "How did you sleep?"

Closing her eyes, she exhaled a hum of approval and rubbed her feet together in euphoric contentment. He let out a hoarse chuckle while he softly squeezed the breast pressed into his palm.

"My, my, I think this is the most pleasant mood I've ever seen you in," he taunted, pushing back the hair from her face so he could get a better view.

"Hmmm, the memories of last night are still fresh in my mind." She backed further into his chest allowing him greater access to her neck. He pressed lethargic kisses to her warm skin until he reached her mouth. Parting her lips for his tongue, she was oddly only too willing to bask in the attention he was lavishing on her.

"Is that so? I've been reveling in a few memories myself. I was thinking we could reenact them; you know, to keep them fresh in our minds..." Moist kisses dotted her bare shoulder.

She let out a laugh, throaty from sleep, "That sounds like a plan; however I'm afraid you let me sleep too long as it is, and I need to get up."

"What can I do to convince you to stay in bed?" he murmured into her ear. Sliding his hand across the flat expanse of her abdomen, he felt her shiver against him.

"Absolutely nothing," she deadpanned.

Capturing her mouth in a deep, passionate kiss, he crawled on top of her, pinning her to the mattress.

"That's not going to work!" She broke the kiss and squealed. "Crowley!"

"What, darling?" he grinned slyly, enjoying what he was doing to her.

"I have to get up! There are things to do, and the work piles up by the minute."

"Just a few more minutes of this." He took her earlobe into his warm mouth and nipped and sucked alternatively. His hands roamed freely over her body. When they happened to skim over the sensitive flesh covering her ribs, being of a hopelessly ticklish nature, she couldn't help the cackle that escaped her mouth, nor the involuntary reflex involving her knee colliding with the delicate area situated between Crowley's legs. Instantly, she realized what had happened as he emitted a silent scream and rolled off her to tumble onto the bed. He curled up in a fetal position and she could've sworn he was whimpering.

"Dear, did you forget that I'm ticklish there?" she asked, trying not to show her amusement, as she threaded her fingers soothingly through his dark hair.

"Of course I did!" The words were almost a whisper as he was obviously focused on trying to control the severe pain radiating from his groin area. "How was I supposed to remember that? The last time we fucked was twelve years ago! That's kind of a long time!"

"You're so vulgar." She kissed his temple. "But you remembered other things last night, things that happened long before our last encounter," she teased him, a saucy tint to her voice.

"I think I did a good job remembering the most important things!" he replied in a voice of slightly higher pitch than his usual deep tones.

She stroked his back in an effort to alleviate his pain, her long finger traveling the length of his spine. Leaning in, she planted a kiss on the back of a shoulder. He rumbled his appreciation.

"So, when are we going to commence with our usual post-coital fighting?" She turned away and wrapped the rumpled bedsheet around her to cover her nakedness. She tried to keep the tone light, but there was an underlying seriousness to her concern. It happened every time they slept together. Due to their stubborn, prideful natures, they would inevitably start bickering over something ridiculous, which led to an explosive argument filled with vitriol, and ended with one of them walking out on the other. It never failed to happen. She didn't know why sex always ended with a fight, it just did.

Maybe it just made it easier to walk away.

Crowley must've recovered sufficiently enough by then because he looked up and quickly grabbed a corner of the sheet as Naomi began to walking away, causing her to stumble to the floor. She landed with a dull thud. Climbing to the edge of the bed, he saw her rubbing her bottom and shooting him a most virulent glare. He tried, but failed, to stifle the laughter building inside him.

"If there's going to be a fight, just remember that you started it this time," he drolled, getting off the bed to help her up.

"Me? You tripped me!" she balked.

"I did not! You asked a question then walked away! I was just trying to pull you back for an answer."

"Perhaps it was rhetorical!" she jerked herself away from the arm that was still holding onto her.

"If it was rhetorical, then why did you ask it out loud?" He raised his eyebrows, challenging her for an answer.

Naomi simply puffed, unable to answer him. "I have work to do and I need to get ready. I trust you can see yourself out," she snapped, retreating to her bathroom and slamming the door just as Crowley yelled in exasperation after her.

Her heart was pounding. They'd done it again. They'd fought over something absolutely ridiculous. She'd been the one to walk away this time. Briefly, she wondered what their score was. The last post-coital fight they had put Crowley ahead by two, having walked out on her at least a couple more times than she.

But who was keeping score?

Besides, he was being insufferable. And he tripped her. So, really, he deserved having the door shut in his face. Didn't he?

Letting the sheet drop to the floor, she turned on the shower, allowing it to run until the water heated up. Damned demon. Why did she let him get under her skin? Suddenly, she wanted to wash away all evidence of him; she wanted to scrub her body until it bled clean.

But it would be impossible to rid herself of all the evidence he left behind.

She was conflicted: should she continue with her shower or return to the bedroom and see if they could talk it out like two adults without resorting to fighting? Knowing their track record, the odds were against them. In these situations, Crowley could be impossibly pig-headed and talking to him would get her nowhere. Even though her original question had gone unanswered, their little heated exchange had proved a point.

When the water had sufficiently warmed, Naomi opened the shower stall to stepped inside, but her movements were halted by a pair of arms that encircled her waist and held her in a tight grip.

"Naomi," he said her name with a firmness to let her know she wasn't going to get rid of him that easily.

She couldn't help it; a secret smile found its way across her face. She was glad he couldn't see or he would've claimed victory, and she'd never hear the end of it. The ego boost was something she didn't have the patience to deal with. He'd gloat between now and the next apocalypse. All the sudden, she felt fluttering inside of her stomach. It was one of those new sensations.

"That was a pathetic excuse for an argument; it was almost like you were grasping for something to fight about," he chided. "We've had much better quarrels, sweetheart. I'm disappointed in you; such a lack of enthusiasm." He tutted.

"I don't want to fight," she admitted in a barely audible whisper.

"Then let's not fight."

Laying her head back against his shoulder, she laughed. "What's happened to us? Are we getting soft in our old age?"

There was a pregnant pause, but Crowley eventually replied in an inscrutable tone of voice, "I don't know what happened to us." But he had more thoughts on his mind concerning the subject than what he let on. Naomi's halfhearted attempt to start an argument and his unwillingness to engage her in their typical post-sex acrimony and rise to her bait left him feeling a bit unsettled. He hoped he wasn't going weak for this stubborn, arrogant, pain-in-the-ass angel, known for her effrontery when dealing with demons, angels, and humans alike. Why shouldn't he be picking a fight with her? They should be screaming at the tops of their lungs at one another, flinging insults, and dredging up the more pernicious moments from their history together.

But as his hands moved to graze the subtle curves of her hips, he found that he much preferred this to fighting. At least for right now.

"There's enough room for two in there," he wriggled his eyebrows suggestively, nodding toward the shower. "Come on, I'll even wash your hair."

With her newly discovered feelings budding inside her, it didn't take much to convince Naomi to allow him to join her.

Of course, the shower took twice as long as usual. Between each sultry kiss, Naomi reminded him that she was in a hurry; there was important work to be done! Crowley didn't much care for her schedule, and told her as much, which made her temper surge. The anger quickly evaporated when their hands and mouths found each other again. If Naomi had been asked to point out the difference between them and a group of hormone-driven teenagers, she'd have to confess that there wasn't much of a disparity.

Finally, Naomi put an end to the shower-time shenanigans when she turned off the water and grabbed a couple of towels. Crowley followed, watching her thoughtfully. He broke the silence as she combed her hair in front of the bathroom mirror.

"I'm going to be gone for a few weeks."

She found his reflection in the mirror while she dragged a comb gently through her long auburn locks. "Oh? Where?"

"I can't say," he said.

"I should be more furious than I am that you don't trust me."

"Save it for when I return," he snorted.

"I like how you don't even bother denying the fact that you don't trust me."

"When have I ever trusted an angel, love?"

"How long?" she asked, ignoring his jab.

"I don't know."

"You don't know or you don't want to tell me that, either?"

"I honestly don't know. I realize you're a little sore about me keeping my activities from you-"

"Oh, sore doesn't even begin to cover it," she shot him a smile that was laced with poison; it reached all the way to her eyes.

"It's not like you share your plans with me!" he exclaimed defensively.

"Maybe if you were, at any time, trustworthy, we could come to an understanding and be more open with one another. Then we could talk about these things." She grabbed a pair of panties and threw them on, visibly mad.

"One thing you can always count on is for me to be dishonest. At the end of the day, I'm still a demon and that will never change."

She finished clasping her bra and walked up to him, her eyes now wistful with the realization of how true his statement was. "Last night...you didn't seem all that demonic, Crowley. In fact, if I didn't know any better..."

"Don't say it, Naomi," he bit tersely.

She studied his face, resolute in his unwillingness to listen to her finish her sentence, and backed down without a fight. "All right."

He waited as she dried her hair and then helped her dress, an affectionate act she found endearing. As she buttoned her blazer, she leaned into him and kissed his mouth chastely.

"You know, I like you better when you don't have a stick up your ass," he smirked deviously.

"I like you better when you're not trying to kill me."

"Oh, really? Not what you said last night."

"You're incorrigible." she sighed, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. However, a rosy blush bloomed on her cheeks.

"You're no saint, yourself."

Just as her demeanor turned prissy with the pursing of her lips and a straightening of her posture like a cat ready to attack, Crowley vanished without pretense. Naomi huffed and had to refrain from stomping her foot in indignation. She hated when he did that!

"He didn't even say goodbye," she muttered to herself, not sure if she was cross or disappointed.

* * *

Zoë woke up later than usual that morning, feeling tired and grouchy; her sleep had been delayed until after midnight due to the ominous noises coming from her mother's office. They'd been frightening, and as a result, she was almost loathe to face Naomi. She didn't know what to expect from her mother. Would she still be in the temper that caused her to throw things against the wall the night before? Somehow in all the jumbled, confusing thoughts that swam about in her head, Zoë decided that she didn't really know her mother at all. And that perturbed her. However, the growl from her empty stomach compelled her to throw on a random shirt and her favorite skirt, not caring that they didn't match, and trudge drowsily down the stairs. She heard yet another strange noise as she neared the bottom which, thankfully wasn't as fear-inducing like those she heard last night.

Tentatively entering the kitchen, she saw Naomi at the kitchen sink and she was _humming_. She thought back to all the years in her eleven-year existence that she could actually remember and tried to recall if her mama had ever, to her knowledge, hummed. She came to the conclusion that this was definitely something new. Naomi _never_ hummed.

"Mama?"

Naomi stopped humming and spun around, smiling radiantly, "Good morning, baby."

Zoë grumbled and pulled out a chair at the table. "Where's Mr. Crowley? I'm hungry."

"He's on business. He won't be back for a few weeks." At this, Zoë's face fell, and her attitude abruptly, visibly changed; Naomi could see it. "I can make you breakfast, sweetheart."

"I figured you wouldn't have the time," she drawled sardonically, punctuating it with a yawn.

Naomi regarded her for a moment then poured the girl a glass of orange juice. "You've been around Crowley far too long. His sarcasm is rubbing off on you. It doesn't become you, dear."

"I wouldn't have to be around him if my mother were around," she snapped, not meeting her mother's eyes.

"That's not fair," she replied in a gentle voice. "I've been under a lot of pressure. I've a lot of important work to do."

"I liked you more before you were an angel." Zoë didn't know where this sudden onslaught of resentment came from, but it felt exceptionally satisfactory to get it out!

"I was always an angel."

"Oh yeah, I almost forgot; you _lied_ to me."

"Zoë, you're obviously tired and it's causing you to be very disrespectful. Did you stay up late last night?" Naomi looked upon her daughter with worried eyes. She wasn't usually so cranky and she was certainly not the type to harbor resentment.

"How could I possibly sleep with you throwing things against the wall?" she snipped.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. If I had known-"

"But you didn't know. You don't know anything!" The little girl turned away and crossed her arms.

"Zoë," Naomi tried to remain calm and understanding, but she refused to take disrespect from anyone, especially her own child. She tried corralling her back to the issue at hand. "What do you want for breakfast? Maybe you'll feel better once you've eaten."

"I won't. I want Mr. Crowley to make my breakfast."

Naomi counted to ten silently and practiced the art of deep-breathing until she felt she could continue without yelling and angrily sending the girl back to her room.

"I've already explained that Crowley is away on business."

"How do I know you're not lying?" she asked suspiciously, still not looking at her mother.

"I will not tolerate you calling me a liar, Zoë." Naomi's tone of voice suddenly switched to the one she used when dealing with insubordinate angels. It was harsh, but Zoë's sudden belligerence provoked, as well as perplexed, her. She didn't appreciate her daughter's attitude.

"Mr. Crowley said angels lie."

"So do demons," she retorted. "Zoë, what's on your mind? Instead of this passive-aggressive game you're playing, tell me what you're thinking so I can understand what's going on, because right now, I don't like how you're acting and I'm about to send you to your room."

Zoë's fixed her eyes on the wall and made no immediate effort to talk to Naomi. Sighing, the angel returned to her efforts at the sink. It took a few minutes, but then everything spilled out at once.

"I hate that I had to leave my school and my friends. I have no friends here. I have to stay inside all the time, and I never get to go anywhere. You won't tell me anything that goes on. I also don't have a dad and you won't tell me who he is. And I barely ever see you, but that's ok; I don't need to see you because _I hate you_!"

The girl said those last three words a little too easily, and that's what hurt Naomi the most.

She stretched her eyes until they looked out of the upper corners in an effort to dam the tears that were threatening to flood them. Zoë didn't often mention her father. In fact, the last time she mentioned him had been years ago. Naomi had no idea he'd been weighing on her mind, but she supposed her daughter was getting to the age where she'd start asking questions. The subject of Zoë's father was one she'd have to broach carefully. She didn't want to give the little girl the idea that she was keeping her away from her father, but that's exactly what she was doing. It was for the child's protection; Naomi couldn't trust Zoë's father not to try and use the girl against her mother when it suited him. She couldn't trust him not to hurt their daughter. And she couldn't-wouldn't-take that chance.

Did the girl not understand that her mother did everything she did to protect her? If anything ever happened to her daughter, well...Naomi didn't want to think about it. After all she'd been through to be able to carry Zoë to term and, subsequently, to keep her... The hiding, the panicking, the worrying... Zoë knew none of the lengths she'd gone to in order to keep her. She'd stayed in Heaven only until she could no longer button her jackets around the burgeoning belly that filled with her little daughter. She was granted a sabbatical from her duties and sought refuge on Earth, finding the house where they were currently living quite by luck. She purchased it, furnished it, and waited out her pregnancy in secrecy.

It had been a stressful time for Naomi, as she was paranoid about the angels-and demons-finding out. Her daughter was considered an abomination, conceived in an act expressly forbidden to the winged warriors of Heaven. In essence, she was fallen long before the expulsion of angels from Heaven. Naomi carried with her the knowledge that if anyone found out about Zoë, her daughter would be killed. For over eleven years it had been a long-standing source of anxiety for the mother; she would protect her daughter at all costs. Didn't Zoë know how much she was cherished? Naomi couldn't lose her. She omitted certain truths to protect her, to keep her safe.

Though the pregnancy had been a stressful time, it was also full of joy. Naomi realized what love was the first time Zoë, all pink and shriveled and wailing, had been placed in her arms. Angels don't feel as humans feel, but something within her had shifted the day she delivered of the little girl that had been growing inside her. This was the little person Naomi had been talking to all those lonely months she spent in hiding preparing to be a mother, telling the little one about herself and of her responsibilities in Heaven. Not being human had presented some problems in that she wasn't exactly sure how she was supposed to care for a baby, but the moment she held her daughter to her breast to nurse, she felt a surge of confidence that she was actually doing something right (amid all the things she felt she was doing wrong). She was providing her baby with the nourishment she needed to thrive and it had amazingly come from _her_ vessel. _Humans could sure do some amazing things!_ she often marveled in wonderment as she watched her body stretch and change to accommodate the thrivingchild within her. From the moment she'd conceived, her vessel seemed to instinctively know what to do, from growing the child to expelling it to feeding it.

She could've done without the labor part, though. The epidural hadn't been effective and she'd felt every bit of the 30 hour labor; pain had been a new sensation at the time, as she'd never felt anything like it before. The agony was bittersweet, and what should've been curses that passed from her lips, were instead whispers of thanks. While she was sorry her daughter felt the way she did, Naomi wasn't apologetic in the least about her tactics. Her beloved girl was in front of her, albeit in a terrible mood, safe and sound.

Naomi turned to see that Zoë's gaze was still locked on the wall, but she noticed that the girl was blinking rapidly. Naomi was all too familiar with that look; her little girl was a lot like her in that way.

"Zoë?"

"What?" she croaked in an obstinate manner.

"I'm sorry things have been hard on you. All I ever wanted to do was to protect you, and in doing so, I've smothered you. There's no other way to make sure you stay safe other than keeping you close to me. There are some things I've kept from you for your own safety; someday, I hope you'll understand my reasons."

She went to stand beside Zoë, running her fingers affectionately through her mop of dark hair. The child shrugged off the contact, however. "Leave me alone."

Still stung by her daughter's rejection a coupled with her irritation at the girl's contemptuous mood, Naomi's patience had run out. "Go to your room; you can stay there until you learn to be civil."

She waited for the girl to get moving, watching the minutes tick by on the wall clock, but Zoë remained seated. Finally, she muttered something Naomi didn't quite catch it was so soft.

"Pardon?" she asked, crouching down in front of her daughter. A silent tear stubbornly streaked its way down the girl's cheek; Naomi reached up to tenderly wipe it away with her thumb, surprised when Zoë actually let her.

"He left without saying goodbye," she repeated only slightly louder. Naomi sat in the chair next to her and pulled her into her arms; her chin rested on the top of her daughter's head, pillowed by her thick dark hair. She feared her daughter, whom she still considered to be her baby, would spurn her, and while Zoë didn't meet the embrace with mutual need, she let her mother hold her.

So that's what all this was about. Well, a large part of it anyway. She couldn't discount that Zoë was genuinely angry and feeling neglected by her or that staying up late no doubt had caused her to be grumpier than usual, but she hadn't figured this. Her daughter had become very attached to Crowley since she'd arrived here; Naomi hadn't been too busy to notice that.

"If it makes you feel any better, he left without telling me goodbye, too."

"He did?" Her words came out muffled as she'd buried her face in her mother's shirt.

"He did. We were talking and then he simply disappeared."

"But you don't even seem mad. You were humming!"

"I'm used to him. Besides, I've disappeared on him plenty of times before, too," she smiled.

"Well, I don't like it when people disappear on me," Zoë sniffed. "I thought... I thought..." Naomi thought she was hiding her face so she wouldn't have to display her pain for her mother to see. The girl was so guarded with her emotions, but Naomi sensed her hurt over Crowley leaving without as much as a goodbye.

"What is it, sweetheart?" Naomi stroked her hair lovingly.

"Nothing." Zoë sounded defeated and it broke Naomi's heart.

It also made her very, very mad. She was seriously rethinking the idea of letting Crowley be around her child. He was a demon with a proclivity toward cruelty, lying, cheating, and destruction. Earlier that morning, he'd even reminded her that the only thing she could on count as far as he was concerned was him acting as all demons do. Naomi had spent the entirety of her motherhood ensuring that her daughter was happy and secure; she wasn't going to let Crowley destroy that.

"You know who'll never disappear on you?" Naomi asked, her eyes twinkling. Zoë showed her little face when she peered up at her mother, shaking her head. "Me. You're mine forever. What have I always told you?"

"That you're the stars and I'm the sea, and even if the stars should fall from the sky, you'll be falling down to me."

"That's right," Naomi had to swallow a sudden lump of emotion in her throat. "Now, how about I make you some breakfast? My food is much better than Crowley's. Before you arrived, I had a lot of time to practice."

Warily, Zoë asked her, "Does Mr. Crowley know you burned lettuce once?"

"I didn't burn lettuce! ... Technically, it was a grease fire and the lettuce just happened to be too close, that's all," she huffed.

"Uh huh. It lit up like a fireball." A faint smile crept across Zoë's face and she climbed off her mother. "Come on, I'll show you how to make chocolate chip waffles."

"Does Crowley actually let you eat that?" Naomi was mortified the demon allowed her daughter to eat so unhealthily in the morning. The reasons for keeping him away from Zoë were piling up.

"Believe me, Mama, you will never look at waffles in the same way again. It's not just food; it's art." Zoë placed her small hand in the angel's, causing Naomi to smile.

She was beginning to really see Crowley's influence on her daughter, in more ways than one, and she was pretty sure she didn't like it.

* * *

The girl had passed the day sluggishly with her constantly yawning, stubbornly refusing a nap to make up for the sleep she'd missed the previous night. Her mood fluctuated from one extreme to the other throughout the day; one minute she was attached to her mother at the hip, the next she was rolling her eyes. Sometimes she did both at once.

After eating breakfast, she'd been temporarily placated, but now and then, she'd wander into Naomi's office complaining of boredom, trying to wheedle attention out of her busy mother.

"Mother," she whined as she sat in front of Naomi's desk, kicking it repeatedly with her swinging legs.

"Yes, Zoë?" she answered without looking up from her work.

"Aren't you done yet? You've worked all day."

"That's because there's always something to do."

"You should be more concerned with paying attention to your daughter. You never pay attention to me," she pouted.

"I do what I can. I promise to set aside more time every day for you, all right? But right now, I really need to write some memos and set up a meeting. You're a big girl; go entertain yourself. Read a book."

"I don't want to read a book."

"Then watch a movie," Naomi suggested.

"I don't want to watch a movie."

"Write letters to your friends."

"No, it only reminds me that I miss them and that it sucks being here," she complained.

Naomi sighed, her patience being tested for the umpteenth time that day. "Zoë..." she warned.

"Mr. Crowley doesn't ignore me," she said, pointedly watching her mother and waiting for her reaction. When it failed to get a rise out of her, she continued. "Whenever I ask him to play a game with me, he always does. And when I ask him for a story, he usually tells me one, even if they're bad. He doesn't ignore me like you do."

Naomi lifted her head and sat her pen on the desk momentarily. In a softer tone, she cautioned, "Zoë, don't get too attached to Crowley. When things finally go back to normal, you and I will go home and so will he."

"Maybe he'll come to live with us."

Naomi cast a critical eye her daughter, who seemed to be hinting that she knew more than she let on. There was a shadow of a smirk playing on her mouth. The angel only too eagerly took the opportunity to squash that thought.

"No, he won't come live with us."

"Why not?" she asked incredulously.

"Because that's not a good idea, and because you and I have lives to live that are separate from his."

"What if he wanted to live with us?" She crossed her arms defiantly across her chest.

"I'd tell him no."

Zoë stomped her foot angrily and stormed, "That's not fair!"

"Well, darling, when you're an adult, you can let him live with you. Until then, I'm your mother and I will make the decisions." Amused, she went back to the task at hand.

"You're an awful mother!" her daughter wailed. "I hope you feel horrible for how you're treating me!"

"I don't do guilt."

"You already keep my father from me! Maybe I picked Crowley to be my dad!"

The corners of Naomi's mouth twitched. "You can do much better than Crowley."

Zoë fixed her with a cold stare that completely disarmed and unnerved Naomi. The steely spitefulness in the girl's face caught her breath. The expression etched into Zoë's face was eerily close to a threat. Naomi didn't like it. She didn't want to admit it, but it scared her. Standing up, she towered over her daughter, even from behind her desk, and captured her attention with an equally as menacing expression upon her face. If Zoë challenged her, she would lose, and she needed to make that apparent to the girl. She would learn that her mother would always get her way, because her mother only wanted what was best for her. If Naomi had her wings, she would've used this moment to unveil them to the youngster in an act of intimidation. This new air of rebellion and defiance surprised her. She knew teenagers went through such phases, but Zoë was all of eleven.

The girl quickly realized she was no match for her mother and sat down reluctantly, still glaring resentfully.

Naomi gave her daughter a severe dressing down, "Don't ever do that again, do you understand me? I will not be defied. Braver creatures than you have tried to challenge me and have lost."

Zoë's face broke the contact with her mother and suddenly became more interested in her shoe. Naomi thought she saw a shudder pass through the child. Good.

It hurt Naomi to contemplate a relationship with Zoë based on fear, especially when they'd always enjoyed such a warm one. It had been fine until that detestable demon had entered the picture wreaking havoc on everything as he always did. Not only was Zoë being absolutely impossible, but Crowley had managed to seduce her again. And to think she'd begun feeling somewhat affectionate toward him! She was a fool for entertaining the merest notion of having anything other than hatred for that man! She accidentally snapped her pen in two she was so mad.

Well, she wouldn't stand for it! This is probably what Crowley had planned all along: to seduce her, lull into complacency with sensual pleasures, and then do what he wanted to with no obstruction from her. What an elaborate scheme he was orchestrating; too bad for him that she'd figured out what he was up to! And the bastard was most likely using her daughter for some nefarious purpose. Was he the cause of this sudden wedge that had developed between her and her child? What kind of lies had he been feeding to her daughter? Naomi wondered if he was trying to divert her attention elsewhere in an effort to slow down her work. Anger graduated to white hot fury.

In an effort to appease Zoë, Naomi agreed to move to the couch that evening to work while the child curled up next to her to watch television. The little girl was amenable to that idea, though she was still leery of her mother. They started out on opposite ends of the couch and as the hours progressed, Zoë found herself cuddled against Naomi, her head resting against her mother's arm. Eventually, Naomi glanced over and saw that her daughter was fast asleep. Leaning down, she pressed a soft kiss to her cherubic cheek.

Eying her phone, she sat aside her work and picked it up. Thoughts of Crowley still invaded her mind, reinforcing her rage. How dare he be so... _demonic_? She didn't care where he was, if he was busy, what he was doing... She hastily typed out a text and sent it.

Somewhere, many miles away, Crowley was interrupted when his phone chimed. Peering at the screen, saw a text notification from "Darth Naomi". Grinning, thinking she just couldn't get enough of him, he opened the message to read it. His arrogance quickly turned to ire, and if there had been anyone around, they would've quickly met their end with a snap of his fingers.

" _Don't come home. I never want to see you again. Consider our contract null and void._ "

Punching her cell number into his phone, he called her all kinds of names under his breath as he waited for her to answer her phone. On the third ring, she picked up.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Naomi?" he bellowed hotly. "I've been gone less than twelve hours; what could I have possibly done to ruffle your feathered ass this time?"

"I'm onto you, Crowley. I know all about your little plan to distract me from my work by seducing me. And Zoë...what garbage have you been feeding her? Whatever you've been telling her has made her virtually impossible to deal with," she seethed.

"First of all, what bloody plan?" he yelled. "I don't have a plan!"

"Don't lie to me, you worm!"

"Where's your evidence?" he countered.

"You've been acting strange lately, and you told me yourself this morning: the only thing I can count on from you is your dishonesty. The sex was just a ploy to lull me into a state of complacency, throw me off guard."

"You realize you sound ridiculous, right? Naomi have you gone absolutely insane?" he barked. "Why in the world am I using sex as a ploy? What am I supposed to be gaining by doing this?"

"You mean to divert my attention from my work."

"I don't give a shit about your work! In case you haven't noticed, I've been trying to find a way to kill Abaddon. Actually, you probably haven't noticed because you spend too much time with your head stuck up your own ass!"

"What's that supposed to mean?" she snapped.

"It means you pass your days locked in your office worrying about your own chaos of angelic proportions, so I don't know when you would have found the time to discover this supposed plan of mine!"

"And then there's Zoë-"

"What about Zoë?" he asked, very concerned.

"She's been impossible today." She left it at that, but Crowley sensed that there was more than what she was telling him.

"And that is supposed to support your theory of my heinous plans how?"

"You're filling her head full of ideas. There's no other explanation. I've never seen her so...contentious. She did everything today from asking about her father to attempting to threaten me to telling me that she hated me. It is a sharp departure from her usual self and I'm worried."

"You want to know why she was impossible today? Because I wasn't there to babysit and run interference," he spat. "Did you ever think, Naomi, that you're neglecting her? The reason why she's upset is not because I'm feeding her lies; it's because you're head is so far up your own ass and you refuse to remove it long enough to pay attention to your own daughter!"

"Don't you dare lecture me on how to be a parent! You know nothing about being a parent!"

He laughed, "Neither do you! You aren't the one she talks to because you always put her off, telling her you have other things to do!"

"She knows I have responsibilities I can't ignore. We've talked about it, and she seems to understand, for the most part. Besides, you left without saying goodbye to her. Crowley, she was terribly upset about that. If you're such wonderful parental figure, you could've told her you were going to be away for a while."

The phone went quiet. Naomi heard a sigh come from his end of the line.

"I don't want you around her," the angel pressed on. "The way she looked at me today...her sarcasm...I could see your influence on her, and I don't like it one bit."

"I'm not abandoning her simply because you're having a bout of temporary insanity. Sorry, love, but you can't keep me away. Even if I were to stay gone, she won't act any better until you decide that she's as worthy of your time as much as your precious angels are."

"I am her mother, Crowley. If I say you can't see her, then you won't see her!"

The line suddenly went dead. She turned to go check on her daughter when she ran right into Crowley, whose wrath shone in his eyes. Within them, she saw the flames of hell burning hot.

"You just try to keep her away from me," he growled in a low, deep voice.

"When I do things, there's no _trying_ involved," she spat and moved to walk around him. However, Crowley snapped his fingers and her office door slammed shut.

"I don't know what the hell made you so goddamn crazy, but I've about had it with you." He stepped closer to her, threateningly. Her eyes widened in alarm when she saw the same look on his face that had been on Zoë's. It was more than a little rattling.

"I don't want you near Zoë," she breathed. "Ever since she's been here, she's fallen under your influence, and I don't like it."

"Any unappealing qualities she may have unmistakably come from her mother. In case you have forgotten, I've spent most of my days entertaining your mini-me and she has a temper exactly like yours! When she doesn't get her way, she bitches and makes my life miserable! She's also as stubborn as a mule! When she sets her mind on something, I'd be wasting my time to try to talk her out of it. Tell me those aren't traits she shares with you!"

"They're not!" she heaved in grave indignation and offense!

"Oh, come on, Naomi!" he yelled. "Have you always been this blind or am I just now noticing it?"

"These traits are exacerbated by your presence! Before, she wouldn't have dared to talk to me in the manner that she did today."

"I'm beginning to doubt you were around her long enough to know what she would or wouldn't do. Isn't that what-what was her name-Julia was for? To raise your kid while you were off torturing angels and killing humans?"

He'd pushed her too far; if she'd had her grace, her eyes would be glowing in preparation to smite his ass. He knew nothing about her. Nothing. He knew nothing of the overwhelming love she felt for her daughter, nor of the anxiety that engulfed her on a daily basis when the fear that Zoë would be discovered seeped into her mind. She wasn't about to let this lowly demon, who randomly breezed into her life a mere couple of months ago, make such unfounded accusations about her parenting and get away with it.

In a flash, she moved to crawl across her desk and reached for the top drawer where she kept her blade. Crowley was on top of her in an instant, trying to stop her from getting to it. As they struggled, papers and other items fell and clattered loudly against the wooden floor. Naomi stretched until she felt the drawer's handle with the very tips of her fingers. However, before she could open it, Crowley managed to throw Naomi on her back and pin her to the smooth surface of her desk. She gasped at the impact, her face reddening in her anger. He was breathing erratically and grimacing as he endeavored to still her thrashing limbs.

"You bitch," he panted as he wiped a trickle of blood away from his mouth with a handkerchief. She must've hit him at some point; she hoped it hurt. He raised his hand to strike her, but reluctantly let it drop. He didn't release her, though. His hands gripped her wrists almost painfully, holding them to the desk. He bared his weight on her rendering the angel helplessly immobile, which made her only more furious. Trying with all her might to free herself, it proved to be nothing more than a futile effort.

"What were you going to do, Naomi? Kill me?" he hissed.

She was equally as out of breath as he; her chest heaved with her exertion. "You have no clue of what I went through for Zoë, so take all your assumptions and shove them up your demonic ass."

Crowley raised his eyebrows. In all their years together, he'd never heard even a mild curse pass her lips. His mouth curled into a sneer. "Language, darling! They'll never let you back into Heaven with that mouth."

"Let me go," she demanded through gritted teeth.

"I'll let you go when you stop acting crazy," he said. He lowered himself until his body covered Naomi's, preventing even the slightest movement, his mouth skimming the outer shell of her ear. "Seriously, darling, after last night, I'm surprised at you. I thought we'd come to a mutual understanding."

Her voice dripped with utter contemptuousness when she responded, "You said it yourself, _dear_. The only constant thing about you is that you're a demon who lies, steals, and cheats. To expect you to deviate from your inherent nature is foolish, and if you think after thousands of years of dealing with your duplicity and attempts to thwart my work and, not to mention, kill me, that I'm going to take anything you say at face value, then you're a moron. Why should I believe anything you say?"

"You don't have to believe me. But really, between Abaddon and my other little _projects_ , I'm not left with much time to plot against you. Babysitting your unruly sprog has also made it quite difficult to actualize any murderous intentions since she rather demands all of my attention, seeing how her mother is perpetually indisposed," he said wryly. "Also, killing you would leave Zoë an orphan and I wouldn't make a very good father figure, as you've said yourself."

Naomi snorted and turned her face away, since it was the only body part she could move. She didn't want to hear anything he had to say. All he spoke were lies, anyway.

"Naomi, look at me."

Recalcitrant, she felt it well within her right to refuse him anything. Her body was still tucked snugly beneath his, and the close proximity that had earlier caused her to burn with passion now caused her to burn with fury. She wanted him to go back to Hell, to leave her and her daughter alone. Instead, he took her chin in his hand and forcibly turned her head. Her skin prickled at his touch.

"If it makes you feel better, don't believe me. But you signed a contract and we have a deal. If you try to get out it, I will take your grace and you'll never get it back. I'll make sure of it. Then how will you get back to Heaven, love? You'll be stuck on Earth as a human; you'll grow old and die." His face was smug.

In an act that shocked her, she felt him lift his body off her and release her wrists from his grip. He moved away, ready to react against any kind of retaliation. She sat up slowly, rubbing the faint bruises that were emerging on her skin. She glared at him, but remained sitting on her desk.

"There are worse things than being human and dying," she found herself saying. It was true. A few weeks as a human had allowed her to experience such vibrant, enriching things. She'd felt things: yearning, pleasure, contentment. The emotional experience was something she'd been unprepared for, but it had turned out to be an unexpectedly eye-opening adventure. While she couldn't say that being human was superior to being an angel, she no longer thought it was a state of inferiority.

"Oh, really? What could possibly be worse than immortality and all the perks that go with it?" he scoffed.

Naomi didn't have to think long; she blinked back tears. "The thought of losing Zoë is worse than death."

There was a long pause during which their eyes never met. Crowley contemplated the gravity of her words. He was still quite miffed at her irrational outbursts and accusations, but...where Zoë was concerned, he began to understand how it was possible to lose one's head. Not that he, the King of Hell, would ever fall victim to such petty human tendencies. He didn't do feelings and existed simply to squeeze what pleasure he could out of life. When did his existence get so complicated? He had a sneaking suspicion it was when Sam Winchester had injected him with his blood in an effort to turn him human. Damn him. Now here he was sleeping with a graceless angel and babysitting her precocious brat.

He could only imagine what Abaddon would say if she knew.

As he was pondering the surreal state of his reality, the door creaked open. Both Naomi and Crowley's heads snapped up and saw Zoë enter the room timidly. However, when she saw Crowley, she ran to him, throwing her arms around his middle. Crowley did not return the greeting. Instead, he looked at her with a cold expression on his face. When he spoke, his words came out like icy daggers, accusing and biting.

"Your mother tells me that you've been an absolute terror. That is unacceptable. To say that I am bloody pissed off would be an understatement."

Zoë took a step back, unused to hearing that tone of voice from him. Defensively, she scrambled to explain, "You didn't even say goodbye to me! And Mama's so busy! Now that you're gone-"

But Crowley cut her off, storming, "Your mother and I are very busy. You are not the center of the universe. We have very important work to do, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let your childishness get in the way of what we're trying to accomplish. Stop acting like an infant that needs constant coddling and reassurance. Your mother is doing the best she can and you should be grateful she even keeps you around. Whether you like it or not, she's an important angel that is undertaking a very large task. If you want to whine, I can take you to Sam and Dean Winchester and the three of you can sit around and lament about how life isn't fair."

Zoë didn't dare open her mouth. She swallowed and averted her blue eyes that had widened in fear. Crowley had never spoken to her in such a way; she knew he meant business and it would not be in her best interest to backtalk. For the first time since meeting him, she was afraid of him. She began to feel a little ashamed of her behavior.

He wasn't finished, though. He'd had it with both the females in his life.

"And you," he turned and pointed his finger at Naomi, walking toward her. "You are acting cuckoo. I am not plotting against you. I have my own work to do and I do not have the time to sit here and argue over your frivolous, preposterous fears and bandy accusations with you. You haven't given any thought to my work or the impact your sudden insanity has on it. I suggest that you remove your head from your ass and stop worrying that you've suddenly taken precedence over my destroying Abaddon. Newsflash, darling, you're not that important. At least at the moment, anyway."

Addressing both of them, he spoke with words no less thunderous, "Now, you two, I have important work to do and I'm on a schedule. If I have to run interference again, there will be hell to pay. Do not make me come back."

He did not wait for any responses; he merely disappeared.

Zoë sheepishly glanced at her mother who just as sheepishly glanced back at her. Wordlessly, Naomi returned to her work and Zoë returned to the television, all complaints and grievances having dissolved for the time being.


	9. No Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Rating M; this chapter is for ADULTS 18+ for references to sexual situations, violence, language, and references to non-con. If you are under 18 years of age, please do not read any further.**
> 
> **Author's Notes:** Chapter title comes from the song, _No Light, No Light_ by Florence + The Machine.
> 
> This is the longest chapter to date with over 17,000 words. I experimented a little bit with the structure of the chapter. Lots of things happen here, so if you get confused, give me a yell.

It had been five weeks since he'd last been home (he did wonder when he'd started referring to it as home), and it had been five weeks too long. To Crowley, it felt like a whole lifetime had passed between then and now. Searching for the First Blade with Sam and Dean proved to be an exhausting task. While he couldn't fault the Brothers Winchester for not explicitly trusting him, he'd saved their asses more times than he could count, and figured that should mean _something_. It should have earned him at least a modicum of respect. Not to mention he'd saved Sam from that dick angel Gadreel and hadn't received as much as a thank you. And this was all after the brothers had tried to turn him human by injecting him with Sam's blood, leading to an addiction that kind of took over every single facet of his life, and then imprisoned him for months on end while Abaddon tried to claim his throne.

But who was holding grudges?

For five long weeks, he'd put up with Dean's incessant cheek and disrespect until he felt like punching him in the face. The demon had been on a downward spiral, fighting to regain control of his life from the clutches of addiction, and still got more accomplished in regards to the First Blade than the brothers would have on their own.

Needless to say, Crowley was only too happy to make a hasty exit after cleaning up Sam and Dean's mess and saving them, yet again, from that nutter Cuthbert Sinclair or Albert Magnus...or whatever he was calling himself. The entire search had been getting more convoluted by the day, adding to it the debilitating addiction to human blood. He was rendered useless, a slave to the high he experienced after sinking that needle deliciously into his vein, waiting for the blood to mingle with his own. He lived for the high, unable to deal with the lows that settle upon him between hits. He'd been using for awhile. When he disappeared for days or weeks at a time, he was out getting his fix, afterward sleeping it off in a hotel room. This time, he managed to find comfort in the arms of another demon, Lola. She was no Naomi, though. And in some ways, that was a good thing. Lola had seemed malleable and willing to do whatever he asked of her. She supplied him with blood and mindless sex and anything else he wanted. He couldn't get Naomi out of his mind, however. Sometimes when he was high, he saw her standing by his bed, her arms crossed with an unamused expression on her face. He'd laugh. Typical Naomi raining on his parade. He'd reach over to pull her into his bed, but she always vanished before he could touch her. He realized that he missed her. The demon was so far gone, he began to wonder if he'd ever see Naomi again.

Then he found out that Lola was reporting his every move to Abaddon. All the things he could lose swirled messily about his mind: his kingdom, the allegiance of the loyalists (many of whom were already defecting to Abaddon), Zoë... Naomi. He didn't know if she was his to lose, but he counted her, just to be safe. Dragging himself out of the stupor of addiction, he killed Lola and did the only thing he knew to do in order to beat it: he called a Winchester.

After his life temporarily derailed, he was at their mercy. The intervention wasn't exactly what he'd envisioned. Once again, they'd locked him up and treated him like the enemy, even though for this particular mission, he was on the same side as Moose and Squirrel. He was embarrassed to think how low he'd sunk that he had to enlist the help of the Winchesters. He'd been a junkie with a thirst for human blood; how he craved to feel it surging through the veins of his vessel! He hadn't been acting like a King of Hell, and tt had cost him hundreds of followers and put him behind on his campaign for the throne. It had also brought Abaddon dangerously close to finding the First Blade. No matter, for he was confident that in the end the throne would be his. He didn't have time for doubt. If there was anything he learned from his addiction, it was 1) kill the Winchesters before they get you hooked on blood trying to turn you human and end up doing only a half-ass job, and 2) _Casablanca_ was secretly a good movie. However, he would staunchly deny number two to the death if anyone asked.

It was the middle of the night when he arrived in Naomi's bedroom. If he were being honest, and being a demon, honest moments were few and far in between, he might've admitted that he'd been pestered by a persistent little niggling feeling that reminded him he had a home with non-demonic individuals awaiting his return. Two individuals, to be precise. And as the five weeks dragged along, this little feeling slowly graduated to a more encompassing feeling that became harder to ignore. At random, he found his intractable thoughts regularly drifting to Naomi and Zoë, even in the midst of his addiction-fueled binges. Interestingly enough, he hadn't heard a word from either of them. Zoë either must've been on her best behavior or had been smote by her mother, as Naomi hadn't sent him anymore infuriating texts causing him to have to run interference between the two. Truth be told, he was almost disappointed not to have had a reason to return home in the interim. Maybe it was for the best that he hadn't visited. Naomi may have caught on to his blood use and made more of an effort to keep him away from Zoë. He wasn't about to let that happen.

Looking around the darkened room, he had underestimated how good it would feel being back here. He soundlessly approached Naomi's bed and saw she was asleep. As he raked his eyes over her still form that was nearly hidden in the blackness of the room, his eyes caught a glimpse of red fabric highlighted by a rogue strip of pale light that managed to peek though the crack in the curtains. Immediately, he identified it as the same red nightie that had inspired so many salacious thoughts. Lola had nothing on this angel, not the intelligence nor the wit. Crowley began wondering what he'd seen in her.

With a grin to rival a Cheshire cat's, he undressed and slipped into bed beside her. He'd been looking forward to the arguments they were bound to have, the doors that would be slammed in his face, and the threats they'd make to one another. Not that he wasn't content being the King of Hell and of all that it entailed, but he'd kind of grown used to having this irritating angel nearby to keep him on his toes. But right now, he just wanted to rest, knowing she was close by. Demons didn't require sleep, but after a month of relentless searching for that damned blade, fighting addiction, and dodging death with two of the most obnoxious people alive, he needed the relaxation. His movements woke Naomi for he saw her eyes flutter open drowsily, confusion settling in her face.

"Daddy's home," he rumbled into her ear using his silkiest tone.

Though unable to see her clearly, he could hear the surprise in her voice, which was thick with sleep and sarcasm. "It's been a while. I thought you'd forgotten where we lived."

He smiled at her innocuous teasing. Instantly, he felt back in his element. "I thought I had to leave on business to get some peace and relaxation, but it turns out that even you are preferable to Sam and Dean Winchester. Imagine that." He leaned in and left a kiss on her bare shoulder.

She chuckled faintly, "I could've told you that. If you were looking for a companion, you'd be better off with Abaddon."

"I wouldn't go _that_ far," he snorted.

He could feel her smile. The room went deathly quiet and he thought she'd fallen back to sleep; however, he felt the bed shift as she rose from her spot to kiss his mouth. It took him by surprise. He parted his lips and his tongue met hers at the entrance.

Her hands fell lightly on his shoulders, and when she lay back down, she pulled him with her. Taken aback by her gentle insistence, he finished their kiss and searched her face, but it was obscured by shadows. Something was different about her. Her body might've been in his arms, but her mind was a million miles away. He knew her too well; she was hiding something.

"Naomi?"

"Not now, dear," she breathed, allowing her body to communicate what words could not. Her vessel was a book that he'd poured over time and time again, committing each line and scene to memory, each nuance having by now been thoroughly analyzed. When she failed to follow the narrative, which is what was currently transpiring, Crowley knew right away something was off.

Naomi's kisses became more ravenous, and Crowley could sense her desperation in the way she clung to him. She held steadfastly to his body like an anchor in a storm. Suitably alarmed, he tried to pull away.

"Darling," he started.

"No."

"Stop."

"Please," she begged. Naomi never begged.

With a snap of his fingers, the lamp on the nightstand next to the bed suddenly glowed, casting the room in a soft light. Naomi fell back to her pillow, turning her head away from him. His eyes traveled down her body, and the lecher in him ached to reach out and rub the hardened nipples that protruded through the gauzy red material of her nightie. Her heaving breasts pleaded to have his mouth on them. For a moment, he nearly forgot why he'd stopped her, then he noticed the purple outline of a bruise jutting out from the cradle of her eye. Cupping her chin in his hand, he turned her head so they were facing one another. One blue eye was nestled in a sea of amethyst.

Quaking with anger, he demanded, "Who did this? Did a demon do this?"

"No. Don't worry; I've already dealt with it."

"Dealt with it?" he narrowed his eyes. "That bruise is atrocious! Do you even have vision in that eye?"

"You should see the other guy," she quipped weakly.

"Who was it?" he barked. He wanted answers and his frustration mounted as she evaded him. When she didn't say anything, he growled impatiently and snapped a glass of Craig into existence. As he lifted it to his mouth, Naomi deftly intercepted it and downed the amber-colored liquid in one gulp. When she was done, she handed the empty glass back to him.

"Do you mind?" he asked grouchily, sitting back against a stack of pillows. Crowley had just wanted a damned drink; he felt he deserved it after everything he'd been through during the past five weeks, and now having to deal with Naomi and whatever mess she'd gotten herself into. The glass was instantly refilled with a snap of his fingers, and when she reached for it again, he quickly moved to hold it out of her range. He slapped her hand away, but when he caught sight of the bruise surrounding her eye, he relented and presented her with a drink of her own. Slowly, he drew the Scotch into his mouth, savoring the bitter taste as it made its way down his throat, all the while watching Naomi tip her glass up and consume its contents with a single swallow.

Hoping that the alcohol would loosen her tongue, he once again broached the subject of her injury.

"Are you going to tell me who did this?" Waves of his innate possessiveness raged through his vessel. Someone touching that which he considered to be his thrust him into a foul mood. As if he didn't already have enough on his mind.

Quietly, she sat her glass on the nightstand and then surprised the demon by straddling his lap. Leaning forward, she captured his mouth in another kiss; he could taste his liquor on her. She had also managed to steal his drink for the second time. A muffled noise of discontent arose in the back of his throat, but was blocked from release by Naomi's tongue, which had invaded his mouth. His hands pushed the thin straps of the nightie down her shoulders, and she shuddered.

She broke the kiss to take another drink of liquor and said blandly, "You have your secrets and I have mine."

"That's not an answer. If you won't tell me, I'll find out myself," he growled. He had been looking forward to coming home expressly for two reasons: to enjoy a glass of Craig, and to engage in welcome home sex while exchanging heated barbs with the Satan of Heaven herself. Those were the only two thoughts that had gotten him through the day. And now he was going to have to hunt a bitch down and beat the shit out of him for hitting someone he was pretty sure he hated. This was getting complicated and wasn't in the least restful.

She looked at him, an air of sadness seeming to abruptly overtake her, and said, "I doubt that."

He grabbed her by her shoulders roughly, causing her to gasp. He peered angrily into her widened eyes. "Oh, I will. And when I find out who did this, he will pay."

His fingers delicately traced the outline of the bruise, then, with a brush of his hand over the tender skin, healed it. She relaxed somewhat and responded with a faint smile. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him and he was filled with panic.

"How's Zoë? Is she all right?"

"She's fine." Naomi didn't quite meet his eyes, which concerned him. She was definitely holding tightly to whatever secret she was guarding. He was tempted to use her own memory drill on her.

"Are you sure?" he asked, reluctant to believe anything she said. "What happened while I was away, Naomi? Dammit, I want answers!"

Naomi replied by lifting her nightie over her head and dropping it on the floor. Pressing herself against the demon, she quieted him with a kiss. "Stop talking," she whispered against his lips. "If you want to help me, do this for me."

And he did because for the first time ever, he felt a trifle of guilt penetrate him, just enough to give her whatever she wanted.

* * *

_Four Weeks Prior_

Naomi was still reeling from her meeting with Malachi and his army of angels in the morning after. She met with them and talked about her plans for their return to Heaven and for Metratron. She felt like she was on a campaign trail. They'd initially been a suspicious lot, but at least they did seem receptive to what she had to say, especially since she wasn't trying to slaughter them. By the end of the meeting, their suspicions were only slightly less so, but she figured that any kind of progress was, indeed, progress and immediately began thinking of the next steps she needed to take. From them, she learned even more about Bartholomew's monstrous brutality that included orders to kill the Penitents. It made her sick. While she received a lot of her information from angel radio and from Crowley's demons who picked up tidbits here and there, she discovered there were lots of things she hadn't known. She was quite stunned when the full scope of Bartholomew's cruelty was unveiled by witnesses to his violent acts. He was bloodthirsty and dangerous and absolutely unrepentant about it, making any potential meeting between him and her especially dire since she couldn't defend herself without her grace.

Though she was running on a couple of hours sleep, as usual, she felt energized by her sliver of success. After all those weeks planning and waiting, she was finally putting her plans into action. She was doing something to help her brothers and sisters. This was the first step to reclaiming Heaven for themselves. It would, by no means, be an easy journey. She still needed to figure out if there was a way to reverse Metatron's spell, and to do that, she would need the angel tablet. She'd yet to decide how to go about searching for the tablet since the information contained on it was highly sensitive and could potentially lead to disaster; the present state of the angels was a fine case in point. Falling into the wrong hands could mean a death sentence for them all, so she would have to be extremely selective about whose help she solicited. Acquisition of the angel tablet would have to be a discreet operation.

It would take time before she completely won over Malachi's angels, but she was fairly certain in the end they would be on the same side. Bartholomew's faction, however, had her concerned. They were angels whom she'd mentored and supervised in Heaven, but now they felt like strangers to her. She had never been one that was quick to kill, being a methodical being, and it alarmed her that they were so easily given to slaughtering their own brothers and sisters. They had to have been following orders from Bartholomew, as she refused to believe that they would kill of their own volition. As she learned more and more about the civil war involving the angels, the more she'd regretted ever having a hand in Bartholomew being her second-in-command. What a gross error in judgment! Based on the intelligence she'd received from the angels in Malachi's camp, and after being thoroughly apprised of his actions, she was nearly convinced that Bartholomew was too dangerous to live. The others had to be protected from his savagery. But she needed to meet with him first before deciding on the appropriate action to take.

She'd gone through a half a pot of coffee and had worked through most the morning, having accomplished a great deal, before deciding to wake her daughter. Usually, Naomi was insistent upon Zoë waking up at an early hour, however she soon discovered that it was much easier to work when the child was sleeping. There were no interruptions and Naomi could give her full attention to her work. After their last major spat the week before, Naomi stayed true to her promise that she would set aside time every day for the girl, which seemed to please Zoë. Even if it hadn't pleased her, Crowley's threat of "do not make me come back" still hung heavy in the air, and Zoë didn't want to find out what would happen if Crowley was forced to return. Naomi really didn't want to find out, either, and she was used to his threats! She and her daughter reached an agreement which seemed to satisfy both parties: Naomi would spend more time with Zoë and in return, Zoë would be more understanding and try not to bother her when she was working because her work was extremely important.

It didn't mean the child liked it, but both Naomi and Crowley had put the fear of God into her and made it blatantly obvious that any misbehavior on her part would not be tolerated. Though she still threw an occasional tantrum, they were few and far in between; and when she did interrupt her mother, it was generally for a cuddle or a quick kiss, and then she was promptly on her way. Even though it meant being interrupted, Naomi relished those little moments.

Upon entering Zoë's bedroom, she was aghast at the scene before her. Clothes, books, and other miscellaneous things were strewn everywhere. Walking through the room was like walking through a maze. She shook her head. How many times had she told her daughter to clean her room? Six, seven times? She might as well have been talking to the wall for all the good it did her. The last time Zoë had "cleaned" her room, everything on the floor had ended up under the bed. When there was no room under her bed, then everything got thrown into the closet. Carefully stepping around the items that littered the girl's bedroom floor, she made it to the bed without sustaining any injuries, like the memorable Lego incident of last week. Naomi swore the indentation from the small red Lego piece could still be seen on the bottom of her foot. It had possibly been more painful than having her grace cut out of her.

After making it safely across the room, she sat on the edge of the bed and softly stroked Zoë's hair. "Darling, it's time to wake up."

The child grunted and pulled her blanket over head. "Thirty more minutes. ... No, an hour."

Naomi laughed and lay down beside her, her arms finding their way around her daughter. "It's already nine-thirty!"

"I'm a growing girl; I need my sleep," she mumbled grouchily through the blanket, but secretly happy to have her mother to herself for these brief few minutes.

"I'll make you chocolate chip waffles."

At this, Zoë poked her head out, her wild hair flying every which way. "I thought you got mad at Mr. Crowley for letting me eat those?"

"Well, it won't hurt to have them once in a while." She kissed her daughter's forehead, starting to get up, but Zoë arms came out from beneath the blanket and fastened around her mother.

"No, not yet." She snuggled into her mother's warm body, and Naomi was content to lay there savoring the feel of her cuddly girl.

Eventually, the two of them made their way downstairs to fill themselves with chocolate chip waffles. Moments like those had more than once made Naomi wonder if she shouldn't just pack her things and disappear somewhere with Zoë and let the angels and demons battle things out amongst themselves. She was devoted to her role as a warrior of Heaven; she was the guardian of souls, and she had sworn to protect them, as well as her home. Lately, she'd found herself thinking about leaving it all behind for a life with Zoë, a life that would be safe and free from persecution. A life where she wouldn't have to hide her own flesh and blood. She could surrender her grace permanently, bind Zoë's powers for good, and they could lead a peaceful life, like the Penitents had tried to do. However, the thought of missing Heaven caused her such grief. She was already so homesick for it. Ever increasingly, she felt she was having to choose between her daughter and Heaven.

Such thoughts always brought her unimaginable shame. She should be only too willing to play a part in this fight for Heaven. Shouldn't she be the one to reunite the war-torn angels? Perhaps humanity was a dangerous thing, because the things she experienced since handing over her grace had seduced her into thinking of surrendering her wings for mortality; she was falling for an existence that wasn't strictly regimented by rules or following orders. She was treading a path that had led other angels astray. Namely, Castiel.

Zoë made the first waffle, cutting a piece off the corner for a taste test. Naomi let her daughter feed it to her and was rewarded by a toothy smile.

"Mmmm, delicious, sweetheart." Zoë beamed proudly at the compliment.

Free will. Is that what she was practicing here with her child, her darling child conceived outside the strict order of rules she was supposed to follow? Whose existence went against the natural order of angelic beings? Naomi had chosen to keep her and to raise her; was that not an act of free will in and of itself?

As she helped her daughter make breakfast, they were interrupted by Nadia's appearance in the kitchen, which annoyed Naomi. Seeing the look on the angel's face, Nadia smirked, "That douche Bartholomew decided to send you a message, after all." She handed it over to Naomi who instantly forgot her annoyance and wasted no time in reading it.

_Dearest Naomi,_

_What a pleasant surprise to find out that we were all horribly mistaken about your demise. This relieves me considerably as I have always thought of you as the most valuable member of the garrison. As my mentor, I benefited exceptionally under your tutelage and learned a great deal about doing what has to be done in the best interests of the angels and Heaven._

_I am extremely apologetic that I had to miss your last meeting, but something unavoidable came up. I'm writing in hopes that we can meet soon to catch up and reminisce about old times. I'd also like to discuss some issues important to both you and me. I have been very busy trying to track Metatron and ensuring the angels are safe from unwanted outside influences who mean to do them harm. It is difficult to know who to trust these days; it's even more difficult to find that you have enemies amongst your own brothers and sisters._

_I wish to talk to you as soon as your schedule allows. Please let me know what day and time works for you._

_Regards,_

_Bartholomew_

"He feels threatened. He's found out about my meeting with Malachi and his angels and wants to interrogate me," she snorted, reading over the letter a second time. Though, she wasn't quite sure what exactly he meant by "reminisce about old times." She was suspicious and hoped he was referring to their work together.

"Not that I really care to get involved in angel business, but I've been hearing all kinds of things about this Bartholomew guy. The word on the street is that even demons are impressed by his methods. He's picking off angels as easily as Abaddon kills demons. He's already killed off the Penitents."

"I know," answered Naomi, her eyes sweeping over the letter thoughtfully. "Malachi told me. It's very unfortunate."

"Kind of brilliant, actually. Annihilate the competition until you're the only one left," Nadia remarked in admiration. "Who would've thought angels could be so...demon-like? Where did he learn such a fine strategy?"

"Me."

The demon had to forcibly close her mouth, which had been gaping open in disbelief. She let out a low whistle. "Damn. Crowley sure knows how to pick 'em."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Naomi demanded.

"Nothing. nothing. I mean, we knew you were kind of badass after you shoved that drill into Jonas's head, but this give us a whole new perspective on things."

"Killing innocents is not 'badass.' There was a time I thought Bartholomew might make a good second-in-command, but I realize now that I made a mistake. A terrible mistake." She shook her head and put the letter away.

"What are you going to do?" Nadia asked, her curiosity piqued.

"If I know Bartholomew, he's paranoid. Paranoid that I will usurp his position, even though it is rightfully mine; paranoid that I will kill him to get it back, because I am a tangible threat. As long as I'm alive, I'm certainly capable of doing so. He's also paranoid that I'm working with Malachi and will guide him as I have guided Bartholomew.

"I think it would be best to meet with him right away, but on my own terms, of course. I don't trust him for one minute. He wouldn't think twice about killing me to get me out of the way."

"Crowley won't like that. He left us explicit instructions-"

"Crowley doesn't need to know," Naomi interjected testily, irked the demon had evidently ordered his minions to babysit her.

She had to act quickly, quickly enough to soothe Bartholomew's conjectures. If she waited too long, she would look suspicious and he may retaliate, thinking that she was already in too deep with Malachi. Without her grace, she had to take every extra precaution. She couldn't let her loathing of her former protégé get in the way of her negotiations. She would be firm, but accommodating. After all, tempers were already flared, and Bartholomew had shown he had a knack for unconscionable violence. It was true, she had taught him a few brutal tactical measures, but they were only to be used as a last resort, to save their home, Heaven. Revisiting her previous decisions regarding Samandriel and Castiel, she solidly reiterated to her conscience that she wouldn't have done anything differently. In fact, she was rather bitter that she let her emotions get the better of her and cloud her judgment; it was the reason the angel tablet was lost and for the expulsion from Heaven. She should've killed Metatron when her sword was pointed at his throat. She should've taken the angel tablet by whatever means possible, Dean Winchester and Castiel be damned.

Sighing, she had no time for regrets. Everything she did, she did for Heaven and for the angels. Bartholomew wasn't defending a home; he was protecting his power. He had to be stopped. She wouldn't make the same mistakes again. Emotion would not tug at her heartstrings. Sentimentality would not blind her from the task at hand. Bartholomew could either accept that she was the one giving orders, or be executed.

Hastily, she responded to Bartholomew's message, keeping it short and to the point with a hopeful tone. With no other option, she invited him to her house. There was no way she would agree to meet him anywhere else. She also urged him to come alone, saying there were classified matters to discuss in an attempt to appeal to his arrogance to get him to go along with it. Seeing how she was rendered defenseless without her grace, she would need the home field advantage.

After scrawling her name at the bottom of the paper, she stuffed it into an envelope, ordering Nadia to take it straight to whatever poor angel was forced to do Bartholomew's bidding. Naomi was certain it wouldn't take long for him to respond. In the meantime, she would wait.

And think of what to do with Zoë when Bartholomew came to call.

* * *

_Present_

Crowley collapsed on top of her, his damp skin clinging to hers. He was loathe to move off her, so he stayed put, her breasts pillowing his head. Their labored, asynchronous breathing slowed and eventually became one. She buried a hand in his hair, holding his head tenderly against her as he remained embedded in her. In all his and Lola's couplings, he couldn't recall them ever engaging in an act as intimate as this one. To his knowledge, and he confessed that there were lots of things he couldn't remember over the last several weeks due to blackouts, they never spent moments simply enjoying being next to one another. With Lola, fucking had one purpose and one purpose only: to gratify himself and attempt to assuage the lust that accompanied the high from his blood consumption. Once he got his fill, it was over. However, tonight it had been purely about comfort, and he'd sought out Naomi. He was still struggling with the fallout from the addiction: the pain, the embarrassment, the constant battle of trying not to think about blood, trying not to imagine the pleasure that came from injecting it into a vein and basking in the subsequent high that would overtake him. Once he retrieved the First Blade, there had been nothing stopping him from returning home. He didn't trust himself to be anywhere else; sobriety was still relatively new.

As he felt Naomi bring her hand up to gently scratch his head, he was glad he'd killed Lola. The bitch couldn't even begin to compete with Naomi. Naomi wouldn't have sold him out. She may have tried to smite him, threaten to kill him, punch him...but she'd never play dirty and sell him out. Of course, she'd been woman enough to stand up to him when she was displeased about something, a thought which filled him with admiration. She also wouldn't have used him as a means self-advancement, as Lola did. He didn't know why he even got involved with that cheap whore in the first place. Each time he shot up, he wanted to ride the high for as long as he could, and Lola was conveniently nearby and willing to boost the intensity of the experience. Not that the sex hadn't been enjoyable; she had been really quite satisfactory.

But she was no Naomi.

Calling Lola a bureaucrat in the midst of a powerful orgasm just wouldn't have had the same effect as it did on Naomi. Her anger intoxicated him and pushed him over the edge; no other lover could do fury like Naomi did, not even Lilith. She was his intellectual equal; Lola was a blasted idiot, pretty to look at, but severely lacking in conversational skills and militaristic strategy. Thinking of that twit's betrayal made him furious all over again.

His thoughts made him restless and Naomi brought her hand to his back to stroke it soothingly, quieting his movements. He might've made a contented noise right then, like a kitten with too much milk in its tummy, but he'd never own up to it. Naomi noticed, though.

"...are you purring?" she asked, not sure what to think of the little noise Crowley was emitting.

"No. ... Move your hand a little to the left," he demanded.

She arched her eyebrow and moved her hand slightly to the left, scratching his shoulder blade.

"Down...just a bit...a little more...slightly to the right...right there! Oh, yes..." his deep voice rumbled.

"I should make you get off me," she uttered while continuing to take care of his itch.

"Mmmm, but then you'd lose your warmth."

One of her legs was wrapped around his; she brought her heel up to rub against his calf. "That's what blankets are for."

He lifted himself up and found her mouth. Drawing it in for a kiss, he pulled her into his embrace. "Blankets don't do this, pet."

"Pet?" she laughed.

"Mmmmm," he answered with an affirmative hum. He pressed another kiss to her chin.

She caressed the side of his face and looked into his eyes. "I'm not your pet."

"You could be." He ran his finger along the length of her clavicle. "Holy mother of sin, Naomi, I'd give you anything and everything if you agreed to come live with me. You could wash your hands of those pricks you worry yourself over. I'd make you Queen of Hell, darling. You have the temper for it, you know. There's a violence in you just begging to be unleashed."

"I would never agree to rule Hell. It's bad enough that I'm working with demons. It's all so unclean." She wrinkled her nose. Despite her humanity, she still carried the arrogance of angels.

"Hypocrite. Collaborating with demons is unclean, but fornicating with them isn't?" He burst out laughing at her hypocrisy which earned him a frown. "You stubborn, infuriating woman. You've fucked a demon on and off for several thousand years and, might I add, gave birth to a child with no daddy in sight, and you're worried about getting sullied from working with demons?" Taking her hand, he pressed a kiss to each knuckle. "You'd definitely do well in Hell. Anything you asked for would be yours."

"I don't need anything from you," she snapped and wrenched her hand from his grasp. "And I don't want anything from you."

He rolled off her to lay on the empty side of the bed, rubbing his face with his hand in annoyance. "Really? I suppose that's why you practically shoved your tongue down my throat earlier."

"I did not, as you so eloquently say, 'shove my tongue' down your throat," she objected prissily. He didn't have to see her to know she was blushing.

"I hadn't been in bed more than a minute when you accosted me and used me to satisfy your own depraved urges." Merrily, he awaited her response, knowing he was getting a rise out of her. Her breathing had become more audible, and he could feel her frustration with him mounting. She was so predictable.

"You are the one who entered _my_ bedroom-my _bed_ -uninvited!" exclaimed Naomi, her perturbation only too obvious.

"Judging by what transpired, I don't think you minded all that much," he grinned.

All the sudden, a pillow hit him in the face. Naomi moved to get up, but Crowley grabbed her hips and dragged her back into bed. "Let me go, you pig!"

"On one condition: you tell me what went on while I was away. I want to know how you got that bruise. I want names, Naomi." He looked at her in all seriousness as she fixed him with a hard glare.

"I told you I took care of it," she hissed.

"I'm sure you did, but I'm an equal opportunist and I want my chance. What happened?"

"Nothing!" she insisted, her glare getting more lethal by the second.

He sighed, releasing her. She rolled onto her stomach and reached for the blanket to pull around her, but Crowley had other plans. Swinging a leg over her body, he sandwiched her between his knees, supporting himself on his arms which were placed on either side of her arms. Dipping his head, he took advantage of her naked back, forming a wet path along her skin with open-mouth kisses. He could feel the goose pimples erupt beneath his lips. Traveling further up, he nestled his face into her neck.

"It's not working," she mumbled crossly into her pillow. He knew it was a lie.

"Damn. Here I thought we could resolve our differences with epic hate sex." He nipped and nibbled on her neck. It brought a cocky grin to his face when he felt her move ever so subtly to give him more access. She never could resist him in bed. Dirty angel.

"Didn't we just do that?"

"No. That was welcome home sex," he informed her as he showered kisses over her shoulders.

"And did you feel...properly welcomed home?" She craned her neck so she could see his face.

"Very much so...until you started being a twatwaffle."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously and her mouth disappeared into a thin, taut line of displeasure, causing him to chuckle.

"Oh, did the uptight bureaucrat get her knickers in a knot again?" he teased.

"You're so vulgar," she growled, incensed at his use of the 'B-word.' Raising her hand to hit him, he intercepted it, turning it to graze the inside of her wrist with his lips. "I hope Abaddon finds you and forces you to watch as she razes your kingdom and steals your throne. I'm sure she has a nice rack in the pit with your name on it. If she's lacking in ideas of what to do with you, I can give her a few suggestions. I've had several thousand years to think it over."

This was promising. He was feeling intoxicated again and he hadn't even indulged in a hit.

"If she does that, love, I'll be sure to watch when she makes you bow at her feet, you and all your little feathered friends. You won't have any time for pride when you're busy being her bitch, having your feathers plucked out one by one. I'm not sure the climate of Hell will agree with you. It can get rather hot, and you run just a few degrees below frigid."

"Maybe I wouldn't be so frigid if I were adequately satisfied. I keep waiting to be wowed by the extra three inches you supposedly sold your soul for."

"Funny, I don't remember Lilith complaining."

She swiftly twisted her head, her flashing eyes meeting his amused ones. Snarling, she became even more livid due to the fact that Crowley used his weight to keep her immobile. He recognized her jealousy; it had always been latent, laying just out of sight, but he was an expert in knowing how to coax it to the surface. Angels were supposed to be above all those petty human emotions; not this one.

Inflamed and properly antagonized, Crowley let her loose. He lay back, grinning, intent on enjoying the ride.

* * *

_Three weeks ago_

Turned out the intervention Moose and Not Moose had in mind was simply another stint inside the bunker. As the poisonous fire tore through the veins of his vessel, he was handcuffed to a chair in a darkened room. Even through the cloudiness that muffled his thinking and comprehension, he was still perceptive enough to be utterly pissed off at this unfortunate turn of events. Wasn't it bad enough the Winchesters made him into a junkie in the first place? Had he not suffered enough with Abaddon trying to claim his territory? On top of that, many of his once-loyal follows were deserting him. He would get even with them. Everyone who betrayed him would pay dearly, just like that whore Lola.

He decided he wasn't going to put up with such maltreatment; he was the fucking King of Hell! He'd protest! Those Winchesters would be nowhere without him! They'd most likely be dead without him around to save their asses. They wouldn't be alive if it weren't for him! The whole situation was infuriating. They left him in solitary confinement to battle his demons, the demons they gave him. He craved another hit and his body ached in withdrawal. Every muscle seized and contracted painfully. It felt like hundreds of little spiders with their prickly, needle-like legs were ceaselessly creeping under his skin. He wanted to rip it open and pull them all out. If only he could have another hit of blood.

He fidgeted, shaking his leg until he was sure it would fall off. His hands trembled, and alternating waves of hot and cold racked his body. When Sam and Dean checked on him the next time, Crowley launched his complaints, seething about his mistreatment. After reminding them of his value in finding the First Blade, they gave in, moving him to a more comfortable spot in the bunker, but not without bitching and moaning about it.

It wasn't up to the usual standards of his accommodations; the alcohol was cheap and there wasn't anyone to order around and do his bidding, but the porn was promising, and soon he made himself at home. He remained handcuffed, but at least there was reading material. The Scotch took the edge off his withdrawals symptoms, allowing him to focus on things other than the spiders traveling beneath his blanket of flesh. He thumbed through the pages of one of Dean's magazines, leering delightfully at the Asian beauties that stared back at him from each page.

Dean sat on the couch across from him, opening his third beer of the night. "Try not to get any of the pages sticky. Those are vintage."

"Duly noted," Crowley stated dryly, taking a sip of the inferior Scotch.

"So..." Sam started, not really sure what to say.

"What's wrong, Moose? Cat got your tongue?"

"Of course not. It's just...what do I say to a blood-addicted king of Hell that is currently reading my brother's porn?"

"I'm sure you'll think of something," he snarked.

There were a few minutes of silence as Sam combed his mind, grasping for something to talk about with the brother he was presently estranged from. "So, about the First Blade-"

"Man, I don't want to talk about the blade! That's all we've talked about since waking up this morning. Let's talk about something else for a change," Dean blasted irritably, taking a swig from the bottle he clutched in his hand.

"Ok, then you choose the topic, since mine aren't to your liking," Sam glowered and flipped distractedly through the book on the coffee table.

"Fine. I will." Both Sam and Crowley waited for Dean to come up with something. He was thinking hard, they could tell.

Crowley rolled his eyes, "Oh, for the love of-"

"Shut your cake-hole, Crowley," Dean warned. "All right, fine. You wanna talk about something... So, Crowley, where do you run off to when you're not with us, jerking us around and being a total douche?"

"Do I have to answer truthfully? I mean, is this a game of Truth or Dare or can I just make something up?" He sat down the magazine he'd been so engrossed in and clasped his hands in his lap.

Sam glanced up from his book. Why? Is where you go so embarrassing that you have to lie to us about it?"

Crowley started to protest when Dean interjected. "Hey, we're just talking, man." He got up to fetch another beer.

"No, I simply don't feel like I owe you two an explanation of what I do after hours," he replied sharply.

"Douchebag," countered Dean, who narrowed his eyes at the demon. "Should've known better than to expect any kind of answer from you. If you want to be a conversation-killer, be my guest. We were just trying to talk like nice, normal people."

He didn't know if it was the blood still in his system which was now mixing with the cheap alcohol, or if after all these weeks, he thought he might have a normal conversation (even if it was with these troublesome lads) that extended beyond sex positions and lingerie, but he sighed deeply and grumbled, "All right, I met somebody...so to speak." Peeking up, he saw Dean's eyebrows disappear into his hair.

"You met somebody?" asked Sam, apparently shocked by his confession.

Dean was equally as shocked. "What? Like a chick?"

"I don't think she would appreciate being referred to as a 'chick,'" he said before taking a sip of his drink.

"Wow, you really took that 'I deserved to be loved' thing to heart, didn't you? Well, who is it? Inquiring minds want to know!" Dean pressed, earning himself a glare from Crowley. "You're not talking about that Lola chick, are you?"

"Absolutely not!" he scowled. "I'd rather forget that unfortunate lapse of judgment, if you please."

"She wasn't that bad. She was kind of hot...for a demon."

"So, who is she?" Sam was interested, too, in knowing who'd been brave enough, or stupid enough, to take Crowley as a lover.

"Not that it's any of your business..." Both Moose and Not Moose were sitting on the edge of their seats, leaning in closely lest they miss something. They looked at him in eager anticipation until he gave in. "Fine. It's Naomi."

Dean spat out his beer, coughing uncontrollably. "You're screwing _Naomi_?"

"Watch your mouth!"

"Of all the hot chicks in the world, you chose Naomi?" Dean shook his head, unable to fathom the King of Hell with the menace of Heaven. "We're talking about the same Naomi, right?"

"There's only one. Thank God for that," Crowley admitted, exhaling his relief.

"Wow. I mean, you and Naomi..." Chewing on this bit of new information, Dean took an extra large sip of his beer.

"We've been an item on and off for several thousand years. I would have voted to be more on than off, but then she has a mind of her own and I don't have the patience for long-distance relationships."

Sam shook his head and snorted, "The part of you that's not a douche is oddly endearing."

"Oh, shut up!" barked Crowley.

"I'm surprised you haven't killed each other yet," observed Sam. It was a reasonable observation as the only interactions he and Dean had witnessed between the angel and demon had been filled with death threats and near smitings.

"Wait, she's alive?" Dean finally noticed. "I thought Metatron shanked her ass her a while back."

"Believe me, she's very much alive," Crowley grinned.

"Crowley, did you have anything to do with that?" Dean asked suspiciously. When the demon didn't immediately answer, Dean pushed him, a warning tone to his voice. "Crowley?"

"Not that it's any concern of yours-"

But Dean interrupted, slamming his beer bottle on the table. "Man, didn't you learn anything from _Pet Sematary_? 'Things that are dead should stay dead.' Remember that kid-what was his name?-Gage? Came back as a nasty son of a bitch after his dad buried him in that voodoo cemetery. Took out the neighbor and his own mom." Shuddering violently, Dean gulped the rest of his drink.

Rolling his eyes, Crowley responded, "Well, if that's the case with Naomi, which I doubt, I can't honestly say that I see much change in her."

"That's true, Dean. She was pretty lethal even before she died," agreed Sam.

Dean shot an expression of contempt at his brother. "If she starts acting all weird and going after people with scalpels, we're taking her out."

"Wait a bloody minute!" the demon began to protest. "How else is she suppose to torture others? If I knew you were going to be all judgy, I'd have never told you about her!"

"Hey, we're just looking out for you. We don't want to have to save your ass again when you drunk dial us and we find you with Lola the dead demon on the floor of your hotel room."

"Something tells me that Naomi won't be too pleased to find out about Lola," Sam snickered, looking at Dean, who joined in.

"That's why neither of you will tell her," Crowley growled through his teeth. "Lola was a junkie's mistake. Nothing more."

"Sounds like true love," Dean let loose with a drunkard's laugh and Crowley wanted to punch him. "Maybe we can go ring shopping tomorrow. You can buy Naomi a ring and propose to her." He laughed even harder, slapping his knee and knocking back another one.

Crowley looked on unamused, but Dean's needling was infectious and Sam followed suit. "Yeah, and you can get an engraving on the inside that says, 'One ring to rule them all and in the darkness bind them.'"

Dean suddenly stopped laughing, and appeared to be quite perplexed.

Sighing, Sam attempted to explain, sarcasm shining through his words, "It was in this really great book... Oh, never mind. ... So, Crowley, when you and Naomi get married, will the ceremony be in Mordor?"

The first thing Crowley planned to do once he was released from his restraints was give those Winchester boys a swift kick in the ass. He had to confess, though, this conversation made him miss Naomi, and he never missed anybody. Already he'd been gone longer than he'd planned. He wanted to find the blade and get the hell away from the Winchesters. Closing his eyes, he imagined what she'd be doing right this moment: probably working, a half-filled coffee cup sitting on her desk, her shoes kicked off under her desk, and telling Zoë for the third time to go brush her teeth and get ready for bed. When he arrived home, he wanted to crawl into bed next to her and stay until she forced him out.

Holy mother of sin, he was becoming alarmingly domesticated. What happened to a life filled with torture and sin? He seemed to have traded a part of it for babysitting an eleven-year old and shacking up with her mother. Groaning, he felt well on his way to sainthood. He had to stop this or else risk sullying his reputation.

Quickly, he made a mental note to bring an orchid home with him. Naomi had expressed an interest in gardening a few days before he'd left and asked him to bring her home an orchid. He'd have to find a way to smuggle the orchid home without anyone seeing him.

He was still the King of Hell, after all.

* * *

_Present_

They'd been laying in silence for the past half-hour, the anger that had fueled their earlier passion having abated. After climbing off him, she curled up at the edge of the mattress, just out of Crowley's reach. He became increasingly peeved as Naomi refused to divulge the details of her distress. Obviously, something had happened while he was away, something significant, for he had never seen her so defeated. The sex hadn't ever been about the connection, but she'd been completely dissociated that last round. He thought he'd seen her fire returning during their banter, but at one point, she'd looked down at him and her face was filled with so much pain. He'd seen similar expressions on those he'd tortured on the racks in Hell. Biting down on her bottom lip and clamping her eyes shut, her actions became mechanical. Her touch was cold. How he wished he could peer into that mind of hers; he wanted to know what she was fighting. She cried out when she came, but it wasn't the lust-filled tones he'd become accustomed to hearing. It was the howling of a wounded animal. It was obvious she was exorcizing a few demons of her own.

What was he supposed to do? He could scream at her, threaten her, but she would still stubbornly hold to her secrets. Now she wouldn't even face him.

Not knowing what else to do, and irritated that his plans for relaxation and mindless sex were shot to hell by her non-compliance, he rose from the bed and collected his clothes. He half-hoped she'd reach out to him, tell him to stay, but she remained silent. It angered him. With everything he'd been through, she could've been a bit more enthusiastic about his presence! Stomping out of the room, he slammed the door behind him.

He would bet money that her troubles were entirely angel-related. She probably got the bruise fighting with one of them. It wouldn't be a surprise. Maybe she finally realized what assholes they really were.

Not that he cared.

* * *

_Four Weeks Prior_

She had put Zoë to bed an hour earlier than usual, explaining to the child she had a very important meeting and not to interrupt her. It was an uphill battle getting the girl to go to bed, an incident that had elicited a few threats and exasperated sighs from the tired and overworked mama. Naomi kept looking at the clock, fervently praying her offspring would relent and go peacefully to sleep. Thinking she could breathe easily once Zoë was in her room was a mistake, for the girl then wanted a glass of water. Then she needed to use the bathroom. Then it was too hot in her room. Then she wanted a story.

Naomi began to wonder if there was any cough medicine just laying around that she could shove down her daughter's throat.

Finally, Zoë had to be escorted to her room by her mother, but she didn't go without a fight. It was only after Naomi had dragged her to her bed, yelling at her the whole way, did the little girl acquiesce through her tears and get under the blanket. When she leaned in to kiss Zoë goodnight, the child turned away and threw a pillow over her head.

"We will talk about this later," Naomi stated in a low, eerily calm voice before turning off the light and shutting the door. Zoë knew no good things could come from that tone. She was in big trouble.

Naomi hurried to the bathroom to freshen up before her meeting. She smoothed her hair and straightened the jacket of her new suit, deciding she liked what she saw in the mirror. Feeling that she needed a new image, she replaced her usual grey suit with a dark blue number: shorter, more fitted pants that reached to just above her ankle with a matching blazer. Underneath the jacket, she wore a white tie-collar blouse with a bow that sat at the bottom of her neck. She'd even put on the earrings Crowley had gifted her a few months back when he took her to Vegas. She had been going for a "chic, but intimidating" look and when she gazed at her reflection, she couldn't help but feel she'd succeeded.

There was just enough time to ensure that her daughter's room was protected by sigils when Bartholomew arrived. He was ten minutes early, much to her chagrin. It was his subtle way of letting her know who was in control. Or so he thought. Naomi received him cheerfully, all the same.

"Naomi, it's been a while," he greeted her, a smile unfolding across his face.

"Bartholomew," she responded curtly. "I'm glad you could make it this time."

"I hope you're not still angry over my absence from the last meeting." He took a step closer. He was a little too close for comfort and she had no room to back up as her legs were already against her desk. "I must say, you're looking well, Naomi. Love the suit." His eyes drifted greedily over her body, and he didn't even try to hide it.

"Let's get down to business, shall we?"

"I already know what you want. You want me to stop fighting with Malachi and you want to be leader of our modest army, am I correct?"

Of course he would know why she had summoned him here for a meeting. Bartholomew wouldn't have shown up without an angel or two checking her out, digging up any information on her. And then there was that message she had Jophiel deliver to him that wasn't short of death threats.

"Our numbers are dwindling, Bartholomew. What were you thinking, killing off the Penitents? They weren't hurting anyone. I am disappointed in you."

"Oh, I am so sorry to hear that, Naomi. I never meant to disappoint. Especially since you spent so much time training me, staying after work to make sure I understood the policies and procedures to the letter. Remember those times?" He was unleashing all his charms.

She felt her face flush, but refused to be led away from the purpose of the meeting. "I was fooled by you; I thought you would use your role as guardian of Heaven of protect your brothers and sisters, not kill them, but you don't care about the angels or Heaven, do you? You only care about yourself," she spat heatedly.

That provoked a strong reaction from him. "I have been gathering intelligence on Metatron since the fall. I have many of my angels looking for him, sending back detailed information on his last known whereabouts. I get reports every 24 hours on him. Is that the mark of someone that only cares about himself?" he asked testily.

"Yes. You need to protect your power. He thinks that I'm dead, so naturally he's going to come after you next."

"And we'll be ready. We're going back to Heaven, one way or another."

"We won't if we keep killing each other. There will be no one left to go back!" she exclaimed.

"You'll have to talk to Malachi about that. We don't attack unless provoked," he returned coolly.

"Is that so?" She crossed her arms. "Explain to me what the Penitents did that warranted their execution. They never did anything to you."

"If they don't stand with me, then they're standing against me. I don't have time to deal with splinter groups. This isn't a popularity contest, Naomi. This is a battle for life or death and I'm not going to stand by and see the last of us killed by that thug, Malachi, or let some fringe group weaken us. Wasn't that the first lesson you taught me: kill or be killed? You said so yourself that a little brutality is needed sometimes to establish order."

"Not against your own kind! Not when there are so few of us! When I said that, I didn't have this kind of situation in mind!" she exclaimed, horrified that he would try to justify such harsh measures.

"Don't act all innocent. I've seen you shove drills into angels' heads to extract information. You began killing humans at will to try and lure Castiel out of hiding. Life means nothing to you when there's something you want. You taught me well, Naomi," he grinned wickedly. "But I don't want to talk about this anymore. I'm going to remain in charge, however I'm willing to share my power with you. It can be just like the old days." Taking a couple of steps closer, he was standing almost nose to nose with her. He reached out to stroke her cheek softly and she flinched. "You're one of the best angels, Naomi. You're utilitarian in nature, smart, and a natural strategist. We could find Metatron in half the time it would take us if we continue at it alone."

"I will not work with a murderer," she hissed, the anger rising in her.

He dropped his hand and chuckled. "Interesting since I've been hearing stories about you having two demons in your employ. Isn't that a bit like the pot calling the kettle black?"

"Demons don't masquerade as anything but what they are. As angels, we are supposed to protect and defend, but somewhere along the way, you and your angels confused yourselves with demons."

His eyes glittered dangerously and opened his mouth to say something, however, a crash from downstairs interrupted him.

Naomi could feel her heart thudding against the wall of her chest. Her first thought was that Zoë had gotten out of bed. She pushed past Bartholomew and headed for the door. "Don't move; I'll be right back," she warned as she all but bolted from the office.

From her bedroom, Zoë heard the crash from the living room below and the clicking of her mother's heels on the stairs, most likely going to check it out. Quietly, the child tiptoed to the door, opening it wide enough to look around. Not seeing or hearing anything, she stole into the hall and sneaked to the door of her mother's office, which was open just a crack. Ever since the last meeting her mother had, she'd been curious as to what went on during these occasions. Mr. Crowley was always talking about how awesome her mother was, but she'd never gotten to see firsthand what she was like. She always had to go to bed before the meetings, and it wasn't fair! She wanted to see her mother in action just once.

Through the crack in the door, she saw a tall, blonde man in a suit like her mother wore. She leaned into the door a bit harder than she meant to, and it creaked open, catching the man's attention. When one curious face met another, Zoë gasped, not knowing whether she should run or approach him. Thankfully, he smiled and beckoned her to come inside. She did so, but not without some trepidation.

"Are you an angel?" she asked uncertainly.

"What do you know about angels?" he laughed.

"My mother's one."

A strange expression appeared on his face as he stared at her intently, which made her a little uncomfortable. He focused on her face a little too long, as though he recognized her. However, she had never seen him before in her life.

"Naomi is your mother?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes."

"What's your name?" he inquired as he led her over to the couch. He sat down and she followed suit.

"Zoë," she almost whispered, unable to look away from him. "What's yours?"

"Bartholomew."

"Have you known my mother for a long time?"

"Yes, you could say that. She's remarkable, your mother. We were just having a business meeting and we were interrupted." He didn't stop smiling, and Zoë felt somewhat reassured. She even gave him a small, shy smile back.

"She always has business meetings after I go to bed. I just wanted to see what went on, that's all," she explained, her eyes pleading for a little understanding from this stranger.

"I can understand that," he chuckled.

Suddenly, she perked up. "Do you have a blade? Mama and Mr. Crowley have blades, but they won't let me see them. They told me I was too young for things like that. Mama always tells me I'm too young, though."

"Mr. Crowley?" he asked. He listened to her attentively, taking in every word. The interest he showed in her made her want to keep talking. It had been a while since she received any undivided attention like this.

"Yup! He's the King of-well, I'm not supposed to say the H-word. But it's the place where bad people go when they die. He can't really go there right now, because some ginger's really, really angry and is trying to take it from him. Do you know him?"

"I'm well acquainted with the name. So, he's been staying here?"

"Yeah! It's been really fun. He acts like he doesn't like me, but I think he does."

"Does he like your mother, too?"

"I guess so," she shrugged. "They fight all the time; they should just go on a date already and get it over with."

"I see," he said, nodding his head. "Would you like to see my sword, Zoë?"

Excitedly, she responded with a nod and couldn't help but jump up when he placed the blade in her hand. She swung it in the air, as though she was fighting with an invisible assailant.

"I wish I had one of my own!" she remarked in wonderment.

"Pity that your mother won't let you have one."

"She treats me like I'm five. She definitely puts the mother in smother."

Bartholomew laughed again. "You know, sometimes parents do things that aren't right. Just because they're your parents doesn't mean that what they do or say is right."

"What do you mean?" Zoë asked curiously, returning to her seat on the couch beside the angel.

"It's obvious to me that if your mother is an angel, then you're an angel, too, correct?"

"I don't know. She told me that we'd talk more about it when I'm older."

"Ah. What does your father have to say about it?"

Hesitating, she looked away. She hated being asked about her father. "I don't know what he thinks. She won't tell me who he is."

"That must make you feel terrible! I'm sure it hasn't been easy for you."

"It hasn't. One time, I knocked a girl's teeth out because she wouldn't stop making fun of me for not having a dad. But then I got in trouble with my mother."

"But you were only defending yourself!"

"That's what I said!" Zoë slowly warmed to the angel. She liked him. He was easy to talk to and he agreed with her! There weren't many people who sided with her against her mother; even Crowley took up for her mother! This man saw her side of the story and, best of all, he didn't treat her like a child.

"This is what I meant when I said that parents aren't always correct when dealing with their children. Your mother treats you like a small child and keeps things from you. Do you think that's the way a mother should treat her child?"

"No! I wouldn't treat my child like that!"

"Of course not." He leaned in closer and whispered, "Would you like my help in finding your father?"

Zoë's mouth was as open as her eyes were wide. She'd told herself that she didn't care who her father was, but now that someone was offering to find him for her...she felt differently. Maybe her father wouldn't treat her like a baby. Maybe he wasn't the type to work all the time; maybe he would take her places and pay attention to her.

Maybe he would be everything her mother wasn't.

"You would do that? Do you-do you know who he is?"

"Let's just say that I have a few ideas. I'll check into it and let you know what I find out."

Her face split into a huge grin. "Mama's not going to be happy."

"We don't have to tell her. What she doesn't know won't hurt her. It'll be our little secret, all right?"

"Ok. I promise not to say anything to Mama."

"Good girl," he smiled. Though Zoë had become more comfortable with him, the way his gaze was transfixed on her made her nervous.

So engrossed were they in their conversation that neither one heard Naomi return to the room.

When she approached the doorway, she froze. The sight of her daughter with Bartholomew sent a shock of fear through her. She forgot to breathe and tried to retain her steely composure though she was intensely angry and afraid. Instinctively, Naomi ran to her daughter and pulled her against her and away from Bartholomew. Crouching down until she was eye-level with the child, she searched Zoë's face; the child became disgruntled.

"Mama, what are you doing?" She tried to push her mother away to no avail. Naomi held steadfastly to her, not letting go.

Placing her hands on either side of Zoe's face, she told her sternly, "Go to your room and stay there. Do not leave your room for any reason. I will be there shortly. Go!"

Zoë finally freed herself from her mother's grip and sighed, "I have to go to bed now, Mr. Bartholomew. It's was nice meeting you." Throwing her mother a mean look, she turned and exited the office. Naomi watched her go to her room and shut the door behind her before closing her own door and turning to Bartholomew.

"Stay away from my daughter," she demanded darkly.

"I seem to have hit a sore spot. She was simply curious, that's all. Of course, her curiosity has made me curious." Standing, he put his hands casually in his pocket.

Naomi swallowed the lump in her throat. The security she'd worked so hard to procure for her little daughter was crashing down around her. It took tremendous control to keep her body from shaking. "Don't you dare hurt her or I'll kill you. I swear I will kill you, Bartholomew."

Laughing at her, he spoke, nonplussed, "I don't think you're in a position to make demands on me, Naomi. I just can't believe it! A child! And here I thought Abaddon was playing one of her tricks when she came around asking for your whereabouts because she wanted your child. I lost three angels to that plague of a demon. And now I find out she was telling the truth all along..."

Naomi felt as though she'd just been doused with ice water. "When was this?"

"Oh, a couple of weeks ago. She was quite persistent in her search. Why would that be, Naomi?"

"I can assure you I have no clue."

"It couldn't be because of who her father is, could it?"

She glared at him, remaining tight-lipped.

Seeing that she wasn't going to say anything else on the subject, he continued, "Don't worry; Zoë is safe. For now. But it all depends on you."

"She better stay that way."

"I can insure her safety," he said. He moved his hand to rest on Naomi's hip. She glanced quickly down at the hand then back up.

"You better remove your hand before you find yourself without one," she sniped.

Not only did he not remove it, he pulled her to the couch. "First, you're going to forget any notion of taking over the faction. I'm in charge, and I'm going to stay in charge. It doesn't mean that I don't find you an important asset, however. I know all about your meetings with Malachi. You will prove invaluable to me. Second, I want things to go back as they were between us, Naomi."

"Get your hand off me," she seethed. "You are an angel, Bartholomew. You were sworn to serve and obey. The power has corrupted you!"

"Let me get this straight. When it benefited you, our little arrangement was acceptable, but now when I want it, I'm corrupt. Your logic amazes me, my dear," he laughed.

Tears gathered in her eyes; she desperately tried to appeal to him. "Malachi will never agree to join you as long as you remain in charge. Don't you want to go home? Because I do! Think of the lost souls who are lingering in the veil. Think of the prayers gone unanswered. We need to find a way back to Heaven, and quickly. To do that, we need to unite."

"And we will unite. Or they will die. That's where you come in, dear. It'll be your responsibility to win over Malachi and his thugs. You're doing such a good job already. Keep doing what you're doing."

"It won't work," she let out a sob, tears streaming down her face. "Bartholomew, think about what you're doing."

"I've thought about it. My mind is made up. You will do this, Naomi, or put your daughter's safety at risk. You don't want every angel or demon out there looking for her, do you? Such a beautiful, bright child. I wouldn't want anything to happen to her," he simpered.

Naomi smacked him as hard as she could, knocking him backward on to the couch. He withdrew a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and held it to the cut on his lip. "Don't be mad. As long as you do what I tell you to do, everyone stays safe."

"You're a bastard, Bartholomew. I hope someone kills you soon."

"You were always a passionate one, Naomi." Folding the handkerchief neatly, he returned it to his pocket. "Must be why you allowed yourself to be a demon's whore. I know about Crowley. Zoë told me. Well, she told me enough; I just connected the dots."

The color drained from Naomi's face.

"That's right. If pushed, I will reveal your secrets; I will unravel you, and when I'm done with you, you'll have absolutely nothing. As I understand it, Abaddon has a price on Crowley's head. I won't hesitate to deliver him on a silver platter to her if you don't do exactly as instructed. I never thought you'd sink so low as to be Crowley's whore," he sneered, standing up.

Letting loose a caustic laugh, she spat, " It's not nearly as low as what you're doing. You are ruining our chances to return home and you're threatening an innocent child; as if that's not bad enough, you're also a murderer."

He gave her his biggest, phoniest smile. "Well, it has been a most pleasant evening, dear. We'll be seeing each other soon. You can count on it. We'll talk more later about my plans for Malachi and his angels. I'll send for you." He kissed her cheek, making her nauseous. "You should put a babysitter on retainer. I have a feeling I'm going to be wanting to see a lot of you. By the way, how old is Zoë?"

"Eleven," she stated curtly, her tone flat and defeated.

A slow grin spread across his face. "You don't say. How very interesting."

And then he was gone.

Stifling a sob, Naomi ran across the hall and burst into Zoë's room. She was still awake, staring at the ceiling.

"Is Mr. Bartholomew gone?"

"Yes, dearest." She approached the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress. She drunk in the sight of her precious daughter who was so very dear to her.

"I like him."

Those words made her flinch.

"Sweetheart, I may have to go away on business from time to time."

"Is that why you were meeting with him tonight?" the girl asked.

Naomi bit her lip and nodded. "I don't know how long I'll be gone during these...trips. But while I'm gone, know that I'd rather be here with you."

"Yeah, right."

"Zoë, please..." she pleaded.

"I knew it would only be a matter of time before something else took you away from me."

"I'm sorry, Zoë. I really am." She tried in vain to choke back her tears. She failed her daughter. She had failed to keep her safe; she had failed to keep her happy.

"I guess it doesn't matter. It's nice to know I come first. I guess your job was always and will always be more important."

"It's not. It never was, sweetheart," she said softly.

"Whatever." The girl rolled over onto her side, facing the wall.

"Zoë, look at me."

When her daughter didn't move, Naomi forced her to face her, causing the girl to emit a little disgruntled noise. Holding her chin firmly in her hand, Naomi spoke directly to her, unwavering in her gaze. "Whatever happens...know that I love you more than anything in this world and beyond." She would give up Heaven for her, but it was too late. She was entangled in Bartholomew's mess.

Zoë studied her mother closely, but remained impassive. Naomi placed a tender kiss on her forehead and went to her own room. Crawling into bed, she wept into her pillow into the early morning hours.

* * *

_Present_

To say he was in a foul mood was an understatement. After pouring himself a drink and killing a couple of demons in an attempt to compensate for the shitty night he was having, he banished everyone from the basement and sat brooding at his desk. Upon hearing the door to the basement open with the groaning of its hinges, he was ready to kill whomever it was the second they crossed into his line of vision. He was surprised, however, to raise his eyes and be met with the sight of Naomi standing at his door in her white satin robe, her hair over one shoulder.

"What do you want? I'm busy," he pouted.

"I need to talk to you," she implored, her voice barely above a whisper. She approached his desk.

"Oh, but I don't think there's anything to talk about." He got up and went to sit in the more comfortable armchair.

"Crowley, please... You said you'd do anything for me. Did you mean it?"

He responded with cheek, "There are conditions, love. You know that. You don't get anything for free."

"I know," she exhaled in resignation. Sitting on the floor at his feet, she tipped her head up to regard him beseechingly. With a deep breath, she continued, "I need your help."

"Well, go on," he said, now highly amused. Naomi wasn't one to grovel, and he was enjoying himself watching her do so. She'd finally been knocked off her pedestal. Seeing her haughtiness drowned by this disgusting display of humility was overwhelmingly satisfactory.

"Crowley, I need my grace. I will give you anything," she took another deep breath, "do anything."

"Nice try, sweetheart," he chuckled, but stopped when he saw the earnestness and the fear etched into her face. "Why do you need your grace?"

"I can't tell you. Please trust me on this."

"Dammit, Naomi!" he bellowed, slamming his glass on the end table. "This is getting ridiculous! Just tell me what is going on!"

"I can't. Listen to me! It's important that I get it back, that is all I can tell you. Crowley, I have never begged before, but it is imperative that I have it restored to me. I am offering you...anything."

He appeared to mull it over; she never broke eye contact with him. The hopefulness that settled across her features made him uncomfortable. However, he was a demon. He couldn't give something for nothing. Naomi would be breaking her contract.

And it would have to cost her.

"Anything?" Rubbing his beard, a slow grin materialized. "Are you sure about this? After all, it would be a binding agreement; I won't let you out of it."

"I'm sure," she replied without any vacillation.

"In exchange for your grace, you agree to live in Hell. With me. Forever."

The first thing out of her mouth was predictably, "What about Zoë?"

"She will be taken care of, of course."

"Will I get to see her?" She swallowed loudly.

"I'm surprised at you, Naomi," he feigned offense. "Of all the things that I am, heartless is not one of them. Figuratively, that is."

The prospect of Naomi being his forever was positively titillating.

"I agree to these terms, that is, if I get to keep my daughter."

He snorted, "Just try to keep her away." She smiled faintly at that. He pulled her into his lap and whispered into her ear, "I keep it in my jacket pocket."

He nodded in encouragement and she slipped her hand into his jacket, feeling around for the vial. Furrowing her eyebrows together, she moved from one pocket to another, then proceeded to check both pockets for a second time. Crowley became concerned when she failed to find it. He could've sworn he had put it in his left pocket.

"That's strange; I always carry it with me. Couldn't take the chance you'd get your hands on it." Naomi removed her hand and he checked the pockets himself.

"Well, it's not there," she snapped impatiently and growled dangerously. "I need my grace, Crowley. Where is it?"

"Easy, easy! We'll find it, love. Don't think I'd so readily let you go. Go back to bed and I'll search for it."

"I'm not going anywhere until I find it!" She jumped out of his lap and began tearing apart his office, much to his consternation.

"Be careful! I have some priceless artifacts in here and if you break them-"

Naomi whipped around and was suddenly in his face, her teeth bared like a dog ready to attack. She was so close that she sprayed his face with spit as she yelled angrily through bared teeth. "If I break them, what? You better hope that I don't break _you_!"

"Threats won't get you anywhere!" The words barreled out of his mouth, hurling in a ball of fury toward her. He didn't think she had any right making demands on him when he had endured so much while she stayed home working from a damn desk. And he was actually doing her a favor by returning her grace to her instead of holding her to the terms of their original contract!

He told her as much which only served to further fan the flames of her rage. She responded by dragging him up by the lapels of his jacket and shaking him. "You better find it soon because if you don't, I will kill you. Do you understand me? Don't mess with me, Crowley. I will end you right here!" She threw him to the floor in disgust and he watched her take off up the stairs.

Picking himself off the floor, he straightened his tie and readjusted his jacket. "What a bitch."

"I heard that!" came the response from upstairs.

"Good!"

* * *

_One Day Prior_

Naomi had to leave Zoë with Nadia and Jonas whenever she was summoned by Bartholomew to Buddy Boyle Ministries. She was loathe to do so, but she was left with very little choice. She wondered where the hell Crowley was as he'd been gone five weeks and she hadn't heard a word from him. It concerned her and all kinds of thoughts ran through her mind. Had Abaddon caught up with him? Were Sam and Dean holding him for some reason? Crowley kept his comings and goings a secret, so she really had no idea what could be keeping him. All she knew was that she wanted him, needed him to come home.

Bartholomew had been steady about requesting her presence. When he showed up to escort her to his headquarters, all she could think about was how she wished she could ram her blade through him and watch the light leave his eyes. But so many things were riding on her cooperation. Zoë's safety and the future of the angels were all dependent upon her keeping her mouth shut and going along with Bartholomew. Crowley's safety had also been threatened; Bartholomew had warned her he'd alert Abaddon to his whereabouts if she didn't do exactly what he wanted her to do. And Crowley had her grace, something Bartholomew had discovered right away after their first meeting.

On her first visit to Buddy Boyle Ministries, he'd showed her the programs they were using to track Metatron and the map they'd used to plot the locations of his sightings. Bartholomew had held a meeting to reacquaint her with the rest of the angels she once led, and allowed her to sit in on his meetings. Rarely did he ask her advice or opinion, but she was intent on giving them anyway. He'd give her an indulgent chuckle and change the subject, which never failed to make her burn with contempt and bitterness. It didn't take long to figure out why she was really there, and it wasn't to exercise her skills or to give her insightful input.

It was to warm Bartholomew's bed.

She was repulsed. She tried to think of every possible way to get around it, to avoid getting involved once again with her one-time protégé (another grave mistake on her part). He wanted to show her who was running things now, and to punish her for getting involved with Crowley again. A part of Naomi thought that perhaps deep down, buried beneath his lust for power and domination, he genuinely cared for her in a twisted sort of way. Perhaps the memory of their affair had made him nostalgic. It was thoughts like these that kept her from getting violently, physically ill during their encounters. The old adage "lie back and think of England" was never more true, and so during these times, she thought about other things. Mainly Crowley. She imagined what she'd say to him when he finally came home; she imagined his hands on her instead of Bartholomew's. She hated to admit it, but she missed the bastard.

Zoë had become once again disobedient, and the threat of punishment did nothing to persuade her into good behavior. Though Naomi had been spending more time with her, due to Batholomew putting the kibosh on any plans she may have had for the angels and rendering any work useless, the girl had resumed her feisty, stubborn, out of control nature. Her daughter fought her at every turn and there wasn't enough Craig in the house to aid Naomi's escape from reality at the end of these rough days.

Bartholomew was also very interested in Zoë. One day, Naomi noticed that when he came to pick her up for one of their "meetings," he and her daughter were appearing to be in the midst of a very serious conversation. She didn't like it.

"Zoë," she called as she slipped on her heels.

Rolling her eyes, Zoë walked into the living room where her mother was preparing to leave. "What?"

Naomi affectionately put her hands on either side of her child's face. "Pick a movie and we'll watch one when I come home, ok?"

"Who says I want to watch a movie with you?" Zoë snapped. Then, getting a little braver, she intoned coolly, "You won't even tell me who my father is."

Naomi pushed the girl into her office and shut the door. Sitting the child down in a chair, she stood over her authoritatively. "Zoë, I never told you who your father was because...because I was afraid he'd try to use you. I was afraid he'd try to turn you against me, use you for his own horrible agenda. I love you so much and I've devoted my life to keeping you safe. The identity of your father could put you at risk, a risk that I am not willing to take."

"That doesn't make it right. I deserve to know who my father is so I can make the decision for myself."

Naomi narrowed her eyes, studying her daughter critically. This didn't sound like Zoë at all, and the person she'd normally blame for putting these kinds of ideas into her head hadn't been seen in five weeks.

_Bartholomew_.

Naomi pondered on the thought and paled. It was the only thing that made sense. Every time Bartholomew had come to collect her, she'd always found him talking with her daughter while she prepared to leave, and Zoë had been virtually unmanageable afterward.

Weakly, she said, "We'll talk about this later."

"Of course. It's always later."

"Zoë, please not now," Naomi breathed, a little shaky.

"Not now. Later. I don't even know why you had me if you never want to talk to me or tell me anything. Everyone else is more important than me."

Naomi snapped and grabbed the girl roughly by her shoulders and shook her. "That is not true! You are the most important thing in the world to me. I would do anything for you. _Anything_!" She had to choke down the lump of emotion in her throat. She turned away before Zoë could see the tears that sheathed her mother's eyes.

Without another word, Naomi left.

Not long after their arrival at headquarters were Bartholomew and Naomi pulled into a meeting concerning the latest Metatron sighting with another angel named Rachel. Tucking the thought of her daughter out of the way and into a corner of her mind was difficult for her, but she had to in order to get down to business.

"What are we doing to track him?" Naomi asked.

Rachel spoke up, "We have approximately twenty angels who are responsible for following up on leads typically provided to us by humans. They question the humans and investigate the claim. So far, no angel has come into close contact with him. The trouble is that if Metatron doesn't stay in the same place for a long period of time, we can't get an angel on him fast enough."

"What about activating a tracking device in a piece of equipment he uses? Does he use a cell phone? Laptop? Anything that can be tracked?"

Bartholomew chuckled, "Naomi, dear, I have it covered. You needn't worry yourself over the details."

"I can handle the details, Bartholomew," she tossed back. "Don't forget that I was your boss long before the pyramids were built. I know what I'm doing."

"And I appreciate your extensive experience and expertise, but I've got it covered."

"Well, I say you don't have it covered. There are opportunities for improvement in this plan of yours."

"A tracking device? Really, Naomi? It's all so _basic_. Is that what Crowley taught you? Sounds like a plan concocted by a filthy demon to me. Is that all you learned from being Crowley's whore?"

Rachel arched her eyebrow at the exchange.

Naomi sniped, a pleased smile playing on her face, "Of course not, I'm saving the best for last. And you better believe that he taught me all the best tricks."

Red splotches appeared on his skin and he shot up from his chair. "That's enough. Rachel, that will be all today. And you!" He pointed rancorously at Naomi. "I'll call for you in a minute." With that, he stormed out of the room.

Naomi sighed. The other female angel

"I know you're not here in any official capacity," started Rachel in a low voice, fearing she would be overheard by someone, "but your idea of a tracking device was good. I can use that. I can't believe I hadn't thought of it before. I'll have out intelligence agents look into whether he is using any kind of devices like the ones you mentioned."

Naomi answered with a smile, but it was sad, and Rachel could see that. The light had gone out in her blue eyes.

"I'm young and very inexperienced. The only reason I'm heading the intelligence unit is because Bartholomew killed the last guy. I'm trying to avoid the same fate. Will you help me? Without Bartholomew knowing, of course. If he found out..."

"Of course, Rachel," Naomi answered. "We will get Metatron one way or another. He won't escape punishment for what he's done to us."

Rachel nodded. "Thank you, Naomi. I'll-I'll be in touch. I promise to be secretive." Gathering her things, she all but flew out of the meeting room before anyone became suspicious of her conference with the other angel.

Naomi didn't have to wait long to be summoned to Bartholomew's office. The encounter was no different than the other times. Thankfully, it was over as soon as the other ones. There was no fun, as there was with Crowley. She thought back to the last few times she and Crowley had slept together. They'd talked and laughed through their banter. Even the anger he stirred in her was preferable to the nausea Bartholomew stirred in her.

Wow, she thought, she must be really desperate if all the sudden Crowley seems like the better option.

Though Crowley and she had a history of not getting along, he didn't treat her condescendingly as Bartholomew did. If anything, Crowley treated her as an equal. There were times he didn't like her very much, there were times he absolutely hated her, but he always considered what she said.

Relieved when Bartholomew had finished, she turned away from him while he recovered. She was lost deep in her thoughts of Crowley and the war between the angels when her phone started ringing. Curiously, she searched through her jacket pocket and found it, wondering who it could be. She soon found out when the name of the caller splashed across the screen.

Zoë.

"Zoë?" she answered. "Sweetheart, is there anything wrong?" She felt Bartholomew press himself against her back and lay a hand on her hip. His mouth ghosted across her neck.

"No, Mama. I just...I just wanted to know which movie you wanted to watch..."

Naomi's heart felt like it would burst. "Any movie you want. We'll put on our pajamas and make popcorn and eat ice cream and watch whatever movie you want."

Zoë let out a sob and Naomi wished she could reach through the phone and comfort her. "I'm sorry, Mama. I just feel so confused. I miss Mr. Crowley so much."

"I know. So do I," she said with a longing in her voice that didn't go unnoticed by the other angel in the bed.

"I don't know why, but I feel so mad all the time. And I don't know what to think anymore," she cried pitifully, making Naomi's heart ache for her little one.

"Oh, Zoë, we'll have a talk when I get home, all right?"

"You won't be mad at me?" she sniffed.

"Of course not, my darling. If you can be honest with me and tell me exactly what's on your mind, we'll work out whatever is bothering you. I promise. I'll make it all better."

That only made Zoë cry harder. "Can't you come home right now?" she petitioned her mother.

"I wish I could." Her chest constricted and her eyes stung. "I'll be home later and I'll be yours all night."

"All right, Mama. … I-I love you so much."

"I love you, too, Zoë. Goodbye for now."

She couldn't hang up on her daughter; instead, she waited for the click from the child's end that terminated the call before placing her phone on the nightstand.

"And how is Zoë?" Bartholomew inquired, kissing her neck, which irritated her.

"I don't want you near my daughter ever again. I don't want you asking about my daughter. I don't want you thinking about my daughter."

"I don't know what you mean. Zoë and I get on so well. I've taken quite a liking to her. What on earth could I have possibly done to be banished from talking to the child?"

"She's upset, and she wasn't upset until you started showing up. Stay away from her or, so help me Bartholomew, I will put an end to your miserable existence because the only thing that matters to me right now is my daughter."

"That's rich of you, giving me orders when you have no grace and you're sleeping with a demon."

Raising her chin up defiantly, she shot back, "That bothers you, doesn't it? That I would choose a lowly demon over you. It's saying something, Bartholomew, when the King of Hell has more integrity than you, an angel of Heaven. If I had to choose sides right now, I would choose his because he's ten times the man you will ever be."

Furiously, he grabbed her and struck her hard. It took her by surprise, but she quickly recovered and the two angels struggled until she'd managed successfully to roll on top of him. Holding him down, she unleashed all her anger on him as she proceeded to hit him repeatedly, letting loose the fury of a mother. The final blow left him bleeding and unconscious on the bed. There was a reason she had been the angel in charge in Heaven. There was a reason other angels were loathe to cross her. She had proven herself a warrior, and had been rewarded for her battlefield prowess with guardianship of the souls in Heaven.

For a brief second, she contemplated ending him. She almost did it, but there would be consequences beyond what she was prepared to deal with at the moment, especially without her grace. Grudgingly, Naomi allowed him live. This time.

* * *

_Present_

Lola.

He cursed the name.

Who else could've taken Naomi's grace? She'd had ample opportunity. No telling what she got up to when he was blacked out or high out of his mind. And if she'd had it, there was a very good chance that the little vial of grace was now in the possession of Abaddon.

He groaned. Since this angel had reappeared in his life, he noticed that it had gotten exponentially problematic.

It would be a lot simpler if he just left. It was a straightfoward, easy solution. Nothing was keeping him here. He could get a piece of ass anywhere. Lola had proved that.

He snarled at the thought of her.

He didn't owe Naomi a damn thing. She should be grateful he brought her back from the angelic afterlife. As King of Hell, he didn't cavort with those monsters of Heaven. He hated them as much as they hated him! He was a bloody demon! He didn't owe anyone anything, and he could come and go as he pleased!

Reenergized and determined, he bounced up the stairs two at a time, to go find Naomi. He'd give her a piece of his mind! And then he'd tell her he was leaving! He had better things to do and places to be.

Finding Naomi in the kitchen, he marched right up to where she was sitting, gnawing on the snack in her hand.

She looked up at him and drew in a breath. "As angry as I am with you right now, and despite the inclination to kill you... I've missed you."

This scene wasn't going as planned. She was supposed to fight with him, perhaps pull a butcher knife out on him. She wasn't supposed to sit there in the silk robe that outlined every delectable contour of her body nibbling on a cookie. The little speech he practiced on his way from the basement to the kitchen about how he was leaving and didn't need an angel up his ass was slowly dying in his throat.

Damn her.

"Zoë needs you, Crowley." Then she added cryptically, "I may not always be here to protect her."

"What do you mean? Is this about what transpired while I was away?" He examined her critically for any hints as to what happened, but as before, they weren't forthcoming. She appeared as stoic as ever. He didn't like the sudden mysterious turn the conversation took. Naomi wasn't normally so vague, and this talk of her not always being there concerned him.

And pissed him off.

"What the hell is going on? Stop with all the ambiguous talk, darling, because it's really getting on my nerves."

She considered him for a moment, then told him reticently, "Abaddon is looking for Zoë. I can't tell you more than that."

"How do you know this? Who told you this?"

"I told you, I can't say anymore than that, but I know this person to be telling the truth."

"Why is she so interested in Zoë?" he mused.

"I imagine it's because of what she is."

"Well, what is she?" he asked, his frustration climbing.

A ghost of a smile played upon her lips. "I'll tell you in due time. Promise me you'll protect her, Crowley. I want a deal."

To say that Crowley was incensed was not quite capturing the full scope of his rage. Abaddon would pay. Dean Winchester would drive the First Blade right through her, putting an end to her once and for all. He would do it himself, if he could. For the first time, he wished Cain had given him the mark instead of Dean because never felt more like ending that bitch than right now.

"It will be a cold day in Hell before I let Abaddon get her angry, ginger hands on Zoë!" he fumed.

"I want a deal, a contract," Naomi insisted. "I need it, for my own peace of mind. I need to know that if something happens to me, you'll protect her." She broke down in tears. "I went through so much to have her and she's been my joy all these years. Don't let anyone hurt her."

He looked into her eyes, which glazed over with tears. She was frightened, which was not like the angel he knew at all, and the anger that had been boiling inside him erupted. Grabbing her, he kissed her fiercely, sealing their deal.

Of all the things he'd planned to do, making a contract with Naomi wasn't one of them. His list of things-to-do was growing: find Naomi's grace, kill Abaddon, reclaim his throne, kill everyone who betrayed him, find the person who hit Naomi, beat the shit out of that person, make a contract with an angel to keep her brat safe, make sure said angel doesn't die, kick Dean and Sam Winchester's asses just because...

And find an orchid for Naomi, as she'd been wanting one.

They broke apart and a breathless Naomi immediately went to the refrigerator to gather ingredients for breakfast. She cleared her throat and licked her lips, changing the subject. "So, where've you been? Five weeks was a long time to be gone. Did you get into any trouble?"

Walking over to her, he helped her with her apron. "Uh, no, darling, no. It was all kind of dull, really. Dull and boring. Nothing much happened..."


	10. Bad Bad Daddy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating:** M for mild language and innuendo
> 
>  **Author's Notes:** Chapter title comes from the song of the same name, Bad Bad Daddy by Atmosphere.
> 
> I would also like to thank everyone who has left reviews and messages on Fanfiction(dot)net, Archive of Our Own, and Tumblr. I appreciate every single one. Seriously, every time I get a message, I smile like a fool.
> 
> I realize that I haven't updated in over a year. This is due to two things. I was concentrating on finishing my Bachelor's Degree, which I finished in December 2014. Three weeks later, I moved across the continent and to another country (4,004 kilometers, in fact) to attend graduate school. And graduate school is freakin' hard; so is trying to navigate another culture, but it's been a blast. I can't promise regular updates, but I can promise that I am not giving up on this story because Craomi are too cute in their very unlikable ways.
> 
> I haven't had much of an online presence, so if you have sent me a message that I haven't responded to, please re-send it. I may not have seen it or I might have seen it, planned on responding, then totally forgot because I have a horrible memory.

"Darling, have you seen my blade?"

"Crowley, if you would put it back where it belongs, you wouldn't lose it," responded an exasperated Naomi as she rushed about, simultaneously attempting to put on her earring while helping Crowley look for his blade. She rushed from the living room toward her bedroom upstairs. She was supposed to meet Bartholomew in ten minutes at the designated rendezvous point down the street, chosen by her so that she could keep him from running into Crowley and Zoë. Crowley had only relented the previous day concerning her lockdown status; he'd agreed (with many, _many_ conditions) to let her conduct her business away from the house. Zoë was her unspoken collateral. It wasn't as though she minded; it allowed her to work away from the ever watchful eye of Crowley. She wanted to avoid any inquiries by the meddlesome demon. Also, she simply didn't trust the other angel around her daughter, who'd been less than forthcoming about why she'd been so upset lately. Naomi could only infer that Bartholomew had something to do with it, as there was no other explanation. Subsequently, she watched Zoë like a hawk to make sure she wasn't exposed to any undue influences.

As she made her way past Zoë's room, a nagging feeling caused her to spin around and enter the disaster area occupied by her only child. The sight of all the clothes and other items strewn messily about the floor made the impeccably tidy angel cringe. A half-eaten grilled cheese sandwich lay petrified on the nightstand, a testament to its age; a plant, shriveled and decayed, perched on the window sill, a physical reminder of its owner's neglect. It was a hazard zone. Someone should really put a pair of orange cones outside the door to warn them of the danger that lurked within.

"Zoë, have you seen Crowley's blade?" she asked as she hastily scoured the closet. Naomi then did a quick sweep of the black hole that apparently resided beneath the bed, where sock mates and homework disappeared, never to return again.

"No," the child responded innocently, a little too innocently for her mother's liking.

Naomi sighed, examining the littered floor for the blade. This was getting ridiculous. Her child had not inherited her penchant for obsessive organization and orderliness, that was for sure. She picked up a sweater, a comic book, half of a set of pajamas, a sock, a necklace, a melted Kit Kat bar... Disgruntled, she wondered why in the world her daughter didn't use the copious amounts of space available in the drawers of her dresser to store her things.

"Zoë, why is everything you own on the floor?"

"Gravity, Mama," she replied, rolling her eyes as she played on her iPad.

Her offspring's attempt at cleverness left her feeling even more irritable. She brushed piles of junk aside searching for Crowley's blade. She was sure Zoë had it. Raising her head to scan the room, her eye caught something shiny in a half-opened drawer. It figured that Zoë would try and hide the blade in a place her mother wouldn't have thought to look; it's not like the girl ever used her drawers for storing her extensive, ever-expanding collection of random stuff.

After retrieving the blade, Naomi walked over to the girl and took the iPad out of her hands. "You are grounded. We've told you that you are forbidden to touch our blades."

"Mama," she whined. "Can't we talk about it? I need my iPad! I'll make you a deal—"

"No. I don't have time at the moment and you don't deserve a better deal. This room better be clean when I come back home or your punishment is going to be, in your words, _epic_."

Anxiously, Naomi dashed downstairs and handed Crowley his blade and Zoë's iPad. "She's grounded. Don't let her have any fun."

"That little demon!" He said it with so much pride in his voice that it earned him a withering glance from the girl's mother. However, he was unapologetic. "Maybe she should have her own blade."

"She's eleven!"

"Exactly."

"No," said Naomi emphatically as she buttoned the jacket of her new dark blue suit.

The new clothes didn't go unnoticed. Crowley's train of thought jumped track as he looked her up and down appreciatively. "What happened to the other suit?"

"I felt it was time for an upgrade," she grinned.

"I can think of other things that need upgrading," he remarked, wriggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"Keep them to yourself. All right, let's go over a few things." It was the first time Crowley would be babysitting Zoë and she wanted to make sure he was prepared.

"Naomi, I can watch an eleven-year old girl. I've had demons at my command for several years; I think you'll find my qualifications as a babysitter quite satisfactory. What could possibly go wrong?"

Amused, Naomi crossed her arms. "You haven't been around many eleven-year old girls, have you?"

"How hard can it be?" he scoffed, visibly insulted that Naomi thought him incapable of handling a child.

"Just you wait and see," she smiled so mischievously that it caused Crowley's eyebrows to disappear into his hairline. "I've instructed Zoë to clean her room; check to make sure she hasn't thrown everything into the closet or under the bed. And no helping her out. If you've snapped your fingers or have your demons do it, I'll know. I've already made lunch and put it in the fridge. Dinner is promptly at seven. Don't give her sugar after eight or she'll be up all night; and believe me, at that point, you'll want her to go to bed as soon as possible. Bedtime is nine-thirty. Do not, under any circumstances, let her talk you into staying up any later. Bedtime is non-negotiable."

"I now understand why you decided to become a bureaucrat. The lack of fun sounded positively titillating to you, didn't it?" he groused.

"Oh, believe me, Zoë will have her fun."

"How long do you expect to be gone?"

"I'm not sure." Crowley saw a shadow pass over her face; she didn't look at him.

Since returning home, Naomi had been acting strangely. Sometimes, she was distant, a haunted look shrouding her face. He knew she had a lot on her mind, but she wasn't the type to be so subdued. There were moments she appeared so absolutely defeated. After Crowley had been home a few days, she'd loosened up somewhat. She laughed little and smiled less. Mostly, he found her pacing in her office, lost in the abyss of her thoughts which had taken over her life lately. She still refused to divulge what went on during the five weeks they were separated, a fact that annoyed him greatly. Obviously something happened, as her demeanor had changed drastically. Between plotting his next move against Abaddon and orchestrating the destruction of all the demons who defected to her side, he concerned himself with gathering information on the angel, who'd become even more secretive in her thoughts and activities.

"You don't know?"

"No, is that a problem?" she snapped.

"A little!" he tossed back. "We haven't even discussed payment!"

"What did you have in mind?" she sighed, checking her watch.

"Well, for starters, something red and lacy..."

"I'm not so sure that look would flatter you, dear," she retorted dryly.

"It's not for me, sweetheart."

"Get your mind out of the gutter."

"I'm a demon; the gutter is like a second home," he quipped, satisfied with her annoyance. "I tell you what...anything up until ten o'clock can be satisfied with red lace and me merely ogling you. Anything afterward will involve more _rigorous_ activity."

"You and Zoë and your negotiations," she couldn't help but laugh, shaking her head.

"I'm a crossroads demon at heart; I'm very good at negotiating."

"And as a so-called bureaucrat, I'm very good at saying no."

"You're also very good at making sure no one else has any fun."

Without warning or pretense, Bartholomew appeared in the living room next to the front door. Both the angel and demon were taken aback at the sight of one another.

Naomi was plain mad.

"Crowley. I can't say I'm pleased to see you," Bartholomew intoned coolly with a smirk on his face.

"Naomi, _this_ is the prick you're meeting?" he exclaimed incredulously, scowling at the unwelcome guest.

"It's none of your business," she spoke sharply, seething at Bartholomew's obvious provocation. She had a feeling he was purposely being confrontational by his deliberate appearance in her home knowing Crowley was around. She'd asked him before to meet her somewhere else, in order to keep Crowley's questions and suspicions at bay, to prevent an inquisition. She hadn't wanted to provide him with any information concerning her endeavors. There would be relentless questions that she wouldn't and couldn't answer. Bartholomew knew this, too. He was purposely trying to make it hard on her.

"I think it is my business!"

"Not now," she hissed through clenched teeth, her eyes shooting daggers at him. Seeing her face, he reluctantly shut up. But he was far from happy about it.

"Are you finished?" Bartholomew drawled in a bored manner. "Because we have a lot of important work to do."

"Aren't you even going to ask me what I'm doing here? You don't look at all surprised by my presence." Crowley approached him casually, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

"I don't really care why you are here, Crowley. And no, I'm not surprised in the least," he smirked, piquing Crowley's curiosity. Bartholomew appeared a little too comfortable and a little too calm at finding the King of Hell in Naomi's house. He briefly mulled over the possibility that it was connected to what had been bothering Naomi, who was presently so tense he thought she'd snap in two.

"Bartholomew, let's go. There's no use in arguing," barked Naomi, whose patience was thin.

Crowley noticed that Bartholomew took Naomi's arm with an air of familiarity, making him bristle with jealousy. That flying ass monkey wouldn't get away with this.

"Wait a minute, love. You didn't say goodbye." Crowley caught Naomi by surprise by pulling her to him, trapping her in his arms as he kissed her heatedly. She managed to shove him off her. He didn't even have the time to gloat as the angel slapped his face so hard she left red marks on his cheek. He rubbed the stinging flesh gingerly with his hand.

Bartholomew appeared unperturbed as he once again took hold of her arm, his eyes locking with Crowley's. "We'll be going now." Suddenly, the image of Naomi's bruised eye flashed in his mind; he wondered if Bartholomew was behind it. If he was responsible, surely Naomi wouldn't be going anywhere with him. Then there was the fact that he was still alive...

Naomi gazed back at him furiously, the faintest hint of desperation lining her words. "You just made a big mistake."

And with that, they vanished, leaving behind a fuming King of Hell.

Angrily, he summoned a couple of demons, barking his orders. "Find Naomi and that feathered asshole, Bartholomew, and follow them. I want a full report on what they do, where they go, who they talk to, and anything else. And do try to stay alive, will you?" With the snap of his fingers, he sent them on their way as while he grumbled audibly to himself in the living room.

"Why are you having Mama followed?" Crowley turned to see Zoë walking toward him. Inwardly, he groaned. It was like having to deal with two Naomis.

"Because she's driving me insane," he growled. He'd meant to say it under his breath, but the precocious angel brat heard every word.

"Are you jealous that Mama went out with Mr. Bartholomew?" she regarded him out of the corner of her eye and was pleased to see the strong reaction the question had elicited from him.

"Jealous? Of that moron? Ha!" Shoving his hands in his pockets, he began purposefully walking back and forth across the living room floor.

"Don't you trust Mama?"

"No! And I don't trust that idiot angel she's with, either!" he roared.

"But I thought relationships were built on trust and respect?"

"Not ours. It's built on animosity and headaches," he sniped.

Zoë became excited and nearly danced where she stood. "So, you're in a relationship? An actual relationship?"

"Gracious no! I wouldn't be in a relationship with that stubborn woman even if Abaddon offered to die and give me Hell!"

"Demons are so confusing." She shook her head. "You and Mama aren't _together_ , then?"

"Define _together_."

"Well...you do things together, but you don't call it a relationship."

They definitely did things together, thought Crowley, but he wasn't sure if it constituted a non-relationship relationship. Maybe they were friends with benefits without being friends. Enemies with benefits, maybe? He'd have to give it more thought. Or maybe not, because he refused to waste time on the banal musings of an eleven-year old. Trying to figure out his and Naomi's relationship was as difficult as answering the age-old question, "What is the meaning of life?" He and Naomi just _were_.

"I'll have to get back with you on that," he said as he brushed past her. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some work to do. Go entertain yourself."

"Can't I watch you work?" she asked as she followed him to his basement office like a puppy.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I said so."

"That's not an answer!"

He turned to face her with a devilish grin. "The King of Hell has spoken. Goodbye, sweetheart." When she heard his fingers snap, she found herself standing in her bedroom, much to her chagrin.

With Zoë out of his hair, he sat as his desk and went to work. After initiating a conference call with the demons responsible for trailing and reporting on Abaddon, he called the demon who'd been tasked with capturing the demon Agiel, a task that had cost Crowley a total of six demons. The seventh demon had lasted the longest, by far, so things were looking up. Rumor had it that Agiel was the one responsible for recruiting Crowley's demons while he had been "under the weather." Over a hundred demons had defected since the onset of Crowley's junkie troubles, a fact that left him in a murderous rage. He'd also learned that Lola had been recruited by Agiel to get intelligence on Crowley and to feed his addiction in hopes he'd become so weak that Abaddon could swoop in for an easy kill.

Too bad that he didn't plan to go that easily. Or lamely.

His demons were also scouting for any information concerning Naomi's grace. Crowley couldn't imagine what Abaddon would want with it. There was no spell, to his knowledge, that required grace to work. Pulling various books off his shelves, he noticed one missing. Naomi probably borrowed it for research, something which she was always doing. He flipped through the worn pages; the books had once belonged to his mother, and were passed to him when she'd disappeared. The words were ingrained in his psyche. Every spell and every incantation was tucked securely into the vast depths of his memory; to him, recalling a spell was as simple as being alive (pre-Abaddon, of course).

He poured over every page, none of which contained any references to an angel's grace. Sending a demon to fetch it would be futile. That ginger whore wasn't likely to leave it laying around where his demons could get their hands on it. This was a job for him, and him only. No one else would be able to get their hands on it, even with the stealthiest subterfuge.

Then there was the matter of Zoë and what Abaddon wanted with her. Unlike grace from an angel, he was certain there were no mentions of children of angels in his books. Unless Zoë was a Nephilim. He couldn't imagine Naomi doing the horizontal mambo with a mere human, though. She was far too arrogant to get involved with a mortal. Although, Bartholomew was an idiot of the highest degree, and Crowley had seen the way Naomi let the angel manhandle her earlier, so maybe she occasionally liked to indulge in inferior specimens. Naomi had said that Abaddon wanted the child for what she was. It would've helped immensely if Naomi had told him what exactly Zoë was so he knew what he was dealing with, but she could never be that straightforward.

Time sped by as Crowley gleaned nothing new from his research. Shutting the last of the books, he sat back in his comfortable chair and realized...it was too damn quiet. He hadn't heard as much as a peep out of the spawn of Naomi, which was rather disconcerting. He knew too well of her propensity for interrupting both him and her mother while trying to work and he hadn't heard a word from her. This couldn't be good.

Heading up the stairs, he thought felt something rush past him going the opposite direction. Turning to look around, he didn't see anything, but he felt that something wasn't right. And he was convinced that whatever it was, it was Zoë's fault.

Just before he opened the door to the girl's bedroom, he heard a strange, high-pitched laugh that didn't belong to her. This couldn't be good. Throwing the door open, he saw Zoë quickly shove something inside the button-up sweater she wore over her shirt. Stepping inside, he found himself ankle-deep in rubbish.

"Hey! You're supposed to knock! I'm a girl and I have privacy rights, you know!" She shifted her eyes nervously from left to right, protectively wrapping her arms around herself to guard the treasure she was attempting to hide.

"Eleven-year olds don't have rights. Sorry, try again." The expression on his face soured as he was trying to figure out just what it was that he was stepping in. He could swear there was a melted chocolate bar stuck to his brand new shoe.

"There's nothing to see here, so you can go back downstairs," she laughed anxiously.

"Oh, but I thought we'd spend some time together." He watched as her face blanched. Taking a step toward her caused her to take a step back. At that same moment, the shrill laughter reverberated throughout the room. "What was that?"

"Nothing," she replied with succinct swiftness, setting off alarm bells. "I'm sure you have very important work to do; don't let little ol' me keep you from it!"

"Zoë..." he said warningly. "What's under your sweater?"

"Nothing. What makes you think there's anything under my sweater?" She pulled her arms even tighter around herself and took another step backward.

"You are a terrible liar. Give it to me." Apprehensive, Zoë glanced at his outstretched hand.

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

He sighed and when he snapped his fingers, Zoë found herself hanging upside-down in the air. The object she clung to so dearly having dropped to the floor.

"Hey! That's not fair!"

"You should be a better liar," he retorted as be bent over to retrieve the object. Instantly recognizing it as the missing book from his bookshelf, he picked it up and demanded, "Did you take this from my bookshelf?"

"...no."

"No? I just caught you trying to hide it!"

"Then why did you ask me if I took it? Did you really expect me to say yes? I'm not going to tell on myself!"

He pinched the bridge of his nose for probably the hundredth time since knowing her. He didn't know how Naomi did it. If it had been up to him, he would've gifted this child to Lilith.

"What were you doing with it?" he asked sternly, but his attention was caught by something moving beneath Zoë's bed. Leaving her hanging in mid-air, he crouched down to get a better look when something reached out and painfully pinched his nose with long, talon-like nails.

Jumping back, he saw a small gremlin-like creature bolt run from beneath the bed and out the door.

"Zoë, tell me right now...what did you do? And don't leave out anything!" He shouted and rubbed his nose, which was turning a bright shade of red.

"Ok, but don't get mad at me."

"Too late!" he yelled. "Tell me now!"

"Well, I like unicorns and I wanted to see one, but I didn't know where to find them. So, I thought I would summon one."

"Unicorns don't exist!" He needed an aspirin. Scratch that, he needed a hit of blood.

"Oh, but dragons, vampires, and werewolves exist?" she crossed her arms in disbelief.

"I don't make the rules!"

"I wish I had known that before I did the spell!"

"…what spell?" There was fear in his voice.

"I found a spell in that book. I've been reading some of your books when Mama's been working. I like the pictures. Anyway, I decided to try and summon a unicorn. I found all the ingredients in your desk."

He couldn't believe what he was hearing! "There's no spell for summoning unicorns because they don't exist!"

"That explains why I couldn't find one. I had to make up my own."

"What do you mean, _make up your own_?" The King of Hell wasn't often scared, as he was the bloody King of Hell. All the things that inspired fear were tools he used to scare others. But there he was, standing in the middle of a little girl's bedroom trying to figure out what the hell she unleashed and how she did it so he could undo it, hopefully before her mother came home and got them both into trouble. It was enough to make him a little wary.

This is not what he signed up for when he agreed to watch the little menace.

"I just picked a spell and changed some words so that instead it said 'unicorn' instead of 'Sandman.'"

"You let the Sandman loose in the house? Have you any idea of the chaos it can cause when trapped here?" His blood pressure at this moment was so high, he feared he was going to pass out. There were only a couple of ways a demon could die, and it involved the appropriate blade or incantation. But he was sure this child would find a way around that. Her mere presence was inducing a stroke in him.

"I didn't know! I thought I was getting a unicorn!"

"What have I always told you about doing spells in the house?" he boomed in acute irritation.

"Don't tell Mama!"

"Besides that!"

"Um...always be supervised?" she offered sheepishly.

"And were you supervised?"

"No, but that's not entirely my fault! You and Mama shouldn't have left such books where I could get my hands on them. You should hide them in the drawer where Mama hides her blade. I am just a child, you know. Maybe you should watch me closer."

At her cheek, Crowley's eyes glowed red. Frightened, she swallowed visibly and shut her mouth. She'd never seen his eyes do that before.

Snapping his fingers, she fell to the floor. "Come on, we have a Sandman to catch."

"Since you're already mad at me, you couldn't possibly get any madder at me if I told you there were two Sandmans...could you? Or is it Sandmen? What would be the plural of Sandman?"

Oh dear God. "How did you manage to summon two Sand…men?"

"After the first time I didn't get a unicorn, I did the spell again."

If possible, the red eyes became even redder. "Bollocks!" he cursed. "After this is over, you and I are going to sit down for a little chat, but first, we have a couple of Sandmen to catch. And it won't be pleasant!"

"I'm so excited! My first Sandman, uh, Sandmen! Will they try to hurt me?" Her big blue eyes looked up at him as they went looking for the creatures.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you about the Sandman? Nevermind. Of course she didn't. It would require an imagination, which she doesn't possess," he sighed. "The Sandman is responsible for seeing that children sleep and dream. There is a good one and an evil one. The good Sandman visits sleeping children and sprinkles sand onto their eyes, causing them to have a restful sleep and sickeningly pleasant dreams."

"And the evil Sandman?" Zoë asked giddily.

"He visits naughty children who are still awake when the clock strikes midnight. He appears suddenly, shrouded in the shadows of the bedroom. The children have no idea he's there until he throws sand in their eyes, which blinds them. Desperate to get the sand out, they rub until their eyes bleed and fall out of the sockets. As the eyeballs are rolling around aimlessly on the floor, the evil Sandman plucks them up with his large talon-like nails and throws them in his bag. When he returns to his home on the moon, he feeds the eyeballs to his children, who look like scaly, featherless birds."

Crowley was trying to paint a gruesome picture for the girl, mainly to frighten her so that she wouldn't do anything foolish, like try to summon unicorns and making up her own spells, again. He looked at her and felt rather pleased with himself when he saw her eyes as round as dollar coins and her mouth hanging wide open.

Once she found her voice, she spoke again, this time her tone was a mixture of enthusiasm and a reverent awe. "I want to meet him."

That wasn't the reaction he was going for.

"You're bloody warped; you know that, right?"

"Come on, Mr. Crowley, let's go find them!" She grabbed his hand and pulled him out the door.

The hunt for Sandman Number One and Sandman Number Two was an exercise in patience and restraint. Crowley really wanted to snap his fingers and make Zoë disappear while he cleaned up her mess. The little sprog talked too much and was too enthusiastic. He wasn't sure if she knew just how serious this whole situation was; it seemed like a somewhat dangerous game of hide-and-go seek. Losing her eyeballs didn't deter her whatsoever. Crowley began to fear that he was losing his touch. In the past, his mere presence was enough to inspire fear. This imp masquerading as a child saw delight in danger; she was reckless and fearless.

"Mr. Crowley, if all we needed was a spell to bring the Sandmen here, can't we send them back using a spell?" They were in the kitchen, following the sounds of laughter and other miscellaneous banging and knocking that seemed to be all over the house.

"Yes, but a few conditions have to be met first. Get out the book and read the page about sending the Sandman…Sandmen…whatever…back to where they came from."

Quickly, Zoë opened the book to the section of spells concerning the Sandman. It took a couple of minutes, during which they heard a series of thuds come from the basement. "I found it! The banishing spell… Um, it says, 'The Sandman must be lured inside a circle of chamomile oil mixed with poppy seeds. Once inside the circle, they are trapped unless the circle is broken. In a bowl, mix together dragon's blood, thyme, crushed pieces of a falling star, sand, and graveyard dirt. Ground them together while saying the following: I banish thee to—"

Crowley interrupted her, "That's enough. We need to get the ingredients."

"Don't you have them in your drawer?" she asked him, more than a little anxious. Thinking about doing a spell was exciting; doing a spell and wondering if it may or may not work was even more exciting; doing a spell to correct a wrong spell and hoping it worked or else you may get grounded for life by your mother was not exciting at all.

"Oh yeah, sure, I carry around essence of fallen star in my pocket everywhere I go. Never know when I'm going to need it." He rolled his eyes and bellowed, "No, I don't have a fallen star in my inventory! This is why before you do any sort of spell you look over not only how to summon something, but how to banish it and make sure you have every single ingredient, preferably a double supply in case you screw up! Did you do that?"

"No," she replied weakly.

"Of course you didn't. And you know why? Because you weren't supervised! I told you to be supervised!"

"I wouldn't be doing magic if you had just let me watch you work!" She crossed her arms and glared at him.

He decided then and there that hated babysitting. He would never, ever volunteer to babysit again. He knew his face was red, as he could feel the heat rising from within. It was surprising that he hadn't spontaneously combusted, ending up a little pile of ash and dust on the floor at Zoë's feet. The kid was obviously some kind of monster he hadn't heard of before with the special power to overcome her enemy by generating so much irritation and, thus, insanity that said enemy merely gave up on life and imploded. He would ask the Winchesters about such a monster the next time he had the misfortune of crossing their paths.

In that moment, he wanted to strike down several demons and raid a distillery, preferably full of Craig. But first, he and Zoë had to clean up this mess before Naomi returned.

Attempting to calm down, he spoke slowly, each syllable forced out of his mouth in staccato, "I have some of these ingredients in my desk downstairs. The fallen star and poppy seeds I will have to procure. I know where to get them. You cannot come with me."

"Why not?" Was that fear he detected in her voice? She'd been giddy at the prospect of danger just a short while earlier.

"Ah, scared are you?"

"No!" She was terrified. Hidden behind all that pride was terror.

"You'll be fine. Look, I can't take you with me because if your mother found out, I'd never hear the end of it and she'd probably kill me." They hear another thump in the attic above them, followed by a crash. Zoë looks up, startled by the commotion.

"I'm not afraid," she said in a shaky voice.

"Good." He takes his blade out of his jacket. "I know Naomi said a bunch of blah blah blah about you having a blade, but this is for protection. I shouldn't be gone long. The good Sandman won't bother you. It's the evil Sandman you have to worry about. You don't want to turn into kibble for its ugly reptile children. Keep the lights on. If he throws sand in your eyes, I don't care how much it burns, do not rub them." He hands her his blade. "Do you understand?"

She nods and takes the blade; her hand tightens around the grip.

He didn't want to leave. He knew it was probably a bad idea. There was no other choice. He disappeared in a flash, leaving Zoë to herself.

It was quiet for several minutes, then she began hearing the creaking of the floorboards, first overhead, then on the same floor. She ran to her mother's bedroom, slamming the door shut and locking it. The overhead light was on, but she turned on the two lamps in the room as well. Her breath sped up as her ears strained to hear any noise that would tell her the location of the Sandman and his proximity to her. Her heart thumped loudly against her chest and she could hear the blood swooshing in her ears. Nervously, she looked around the room, holding the blade in front of her, willing her hand to stop shaking. Crowley seemed to be taking forever.

Her back against the wall, she scanned the room, left to right to left. The noises, which now sounded like heavy footprints, were getting closer and closer until they suddenly stopped. And then the worst thing that could possibly happen happened: the lights went out.

In scary movies, when the lights went out, that's when the actors started doing stupid stuff that got them killed. Zoë decided not to be the dumb character who ran to the top floor with no escape route to get away from the serial killer-slash-monster. She was going to stay alive. She gripped the blade even tighter as she pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and turned on the flashlight. She thought she saw something in the crack of the door near the floor.

"Don't come any closer! I have a blade!"

Loud, cacophonous laughter reverberated throughout the room. It wasn't coming from one place; it sounded like it was coming from everywhere.

"Is that all you can do is laugh? Because that's kind of lame." Somehow, she was finding some adrenaline-based courage, no matter how feeble it seemed. She needed to be brave! She thought of Naomi; her mother would be brave! She wouldn't back down and be frightened. She was a badass! That made Zoë feel better.

Of course, her mother was also an angel and angels had awesome powers, which made Zoë feel worse.

But her mother didn't have her powers at all right now, which was just plain unhelpful in helping Zoë decide if she should feel better or worse and how that should determine how much courage she should currently possess.

Her eyes! She had to protect her eyes! Her thoughts were going a mile a minute as her body prepared for the fight-or-flight moment that would either prove her worth or prove her doom. Thinking quickly, she pulled her sunglasses from the pocket of her sweater. She'd kept them in there hoping that Crowley would take her out somewhere. Throwing them on, she really couldn't see anything now. She didn't have to see anything, though. She felt something close by. Goosebumps erupted on her arms and the tiny hairs all over her body stood on end.

"I know you're there," she said, attempting to sound fearless and probably failing. _Please, Mr. Crowley, please, please, please come back. I need you to come back now._

A floorboard near her creaked and she knew the Sandman was getting closer. She had to get her breathing under control because she was on the verge of hyperventilating. All of a sudden, Zoë saw the dark outline of what looked to be talons in front of her face, reaching toward her. It was only barely distinguishable in the dark, which was compounded by the sunglasses, but Zoë saw it and screamed. Without hesitation (but with a lot of panic), she raised the blade and sliced through the air, bringing the metal down hard to feel it rip through sinew and bone. The Sandman let out a high-pitched, angry shriek, which threatened to make the girl's ears bleed, and retreated. With his exit, the lights flickered back on. Zoë removed the glasses to see a bloody arm on the floor with long, spindly fingers sprouting razor-like talons on their ends.

She stared for a long time. She couldn't believe it. She'd cut off the arm of the Sandman.

"What the bloody hell happened?"

The familiar voice dragged her away from her pensive, internal self-congratulatory moment to a more external one. "I cut the Sandman's arm off!" She held the bloodied sword up as evidence for her dastardly, yet utterly necessary deed.

"Well, I'll be damned." Crowley was impressed. Standing over the leathery severed arm, he nudged it a little with the toe of his shiny black shoe. He had half-expected to return and have to replace an eyeball.

In a clear state of frenzy, no doubt triggered by endorphins resulting from exercising a bit of self-preservation, she began talking very rapidly in a voice that quaked with uncertainty as well as exhilaration, "I remembered what you said about protecting my eyes, so I put my sunglasses on and I saw him reach for me, probably to murder me or squeeze my eyeballs out of my head or something else equally as bloody, so I took the sword and I shanked him!" She did a dramatic re-enactment of the moment the poor creature lost its arm to an eleven-year old girl. There was less fear and more _Kung Fu_ in this version, but the story was essentially the same. Sort of.

"First 'twatwaffle' and now 'shank.' Where are you acquiring such scurrilous vocabulary?"

Zoë rolled her eyes. "I'm not a baby, you know. Does this mean I can have my own blade?"

Whilst earlier Crowley had felt that the child was ready to take responsibility for a sharp item meant to maim and dismember, as he looked at the severed arm that was laying lifelessly in the floor, he thought it prudent to change his opinion. Naomi was right. For once.

"No."

"But you said—"

"This is not open for discussion! Now, if you wouldn't mind getting your mind back to the task at hand, we have Sand…men to catch!"

Luring the good Sandman and the evil Sandman to the circle of chamomile oil and poppy seeds was harder than what it looked in the spellbook. The only solution was to use Zoë as bait, which she was all too eager to do because Crowley let her use his blade again. He swiftly took it back, much to Zoë's chagrin, once the creatures were trapped. Impatiently, he taught Zoë how to properly grind the ingredients together, as his mother had taught him centuries ago.

As the girl was reciting the incantation over the now burning ingredients, Crowley's phone rang. It was most inconvenient, but then, everything about that day had been inconvenient. Looking at his phone, he saw that Squirrel's name appeared on its screen. Ah. Moose was most likely there with him listening. "Hello, boys," he answered.

The sudden disruption caused her to turn around and sigh at him in vexation. Like her mother, she did not like to be interrupted. "Mr. Crowley!"

"Don't stop!" he yelled. If Zoë hadn't been in the middle of a spell and if he hadn't been on a phone call, he would have explained that spells weren't like movies. One couldn't stop and resume at a later time. Interrupting a spell rendered it useless.

"But—"

"Keep talking!"

Zoë continued casting the spell and Crowley left the basement to go upstairs. "This better be good."

"Crowley, what was that about?" asked Dean suspiciously.

"Did you interrupt me to ask asinine questions or did you need something?" he snapped. His waning patience with this entire day had just about dwindled into absolutely nothing.

"If you're in a bad mood, I can call you back later, but I thought you'd like to know that we've captured somebody you've been wanting for a while now."

"I doubt you've captured Abaddon. For starters, you're still alive."

"Not Abaddon, douche. Agiel."

Crowley was speechless. His demons had been searching for Agiel for months. He'd lost a few dozen demons hunting for that asshole. To be fair, most of his demons were morons, so he didn't want to give Agiel too much credit.

"Text me the location and I'll be there in ten."

"Ten? I tell you I've got a demon you've been foaming at the mouth for and you tell me you need ten minutes? What happened to showing up before I've even had the chance to hang up the phone?"

"I have a couple of things I need to tend to before I can meet you," he explained testily. Then quickly added, "Not that it's any of your business."

"You're being secretive. You hitting the blood again?"

Just then, Zoë emerged from the basement, whining, "Mr. Crowley! You missed it! I did a spell and it actually worked the way it was supposed to!"

"Got to go." Crowley abruptly ended the call and turned toward her. "Good. Where are your babysitters?"

"I'm looking at him," she returned bluntly.

"I meant the ones your mother usually employs while she indulges her workaholic tendencies."

"They're out. Everyone is out following Mama because you like her and you think Mr. Bartholomew is trying to make a move on her."

"I am not! I do _not_ like your mother! They're following her because I don't trust angels."

"Yeah, like I said, you don't trust Mr. Bartholomew around Mama. He's not so bad, you know. At least he doesn't treat me like I'm a baby." She punctuated her sentence with a glare in Crowley's direction.

"Pardon? If I thought you were a baby, would I have left you with my blade while I went to look for the ingredients to the spell to counteract the spell you bungled?"

Zoë said nothing, but she did glower. She'd perfected the art of glowering sullenly since being holed up in the house with a mother who seemed to work twenty-four-seven, the King of Hell who came and went as he pleased, and a host of surly demons who stopped talking as soon as she entered the room.

"And if I thought were such a baby, would I have left you to take a phone call and let you finish the spell on your own?" His phone vibrated, notifying him of the text from Dean. Opening it, he saw the address of where Squirrel was holding Agiel.

"Whatever. You just want me out of the way like Mama."

"Unfortunately, I don't have time to join your pity party. I have some place I need to be."

"Of course," she sighed and threw herself onto the couch.

 _Children_ , he thought in absolute irritation. They should all be carted off at birth to a little deserted island somewhere in the middle of the ocean; when they reached twenty-one years of age, they would be allowed to leave and join society.

"You are being a thorn in my side. This is important business and necessary to my work." She was a child of Naomi; he tried to reason with her. It was a futile attempt.

"That's what my mother always says. Maybe I should run away. After all, there isn't anyone to watch me if you leave. I could run away and you wouldn't know. And when my mother finds out, she'll blame you. And I wouldn't want to be here when she finds out. Mr. Bartholomew would take me with him. In fact, he's already offered to take me with him. All I have to do is ask."

That set off alarm bells in Crowley's head. What did that prick want with Naomi's daughter? Wasn't he supposed to be busy at war with the other faction—Malachi's faction? Since when would he have time to entertain impertinent eleven-year olds? It was all too peculiar. He wondered if Naomi knew about this.

"Bartholomew is a prat. Why your mother picked him to be her closest, most glorified minion, I will never understand. He wouldn't even know how to flap his wings if it wasn't programmed into his feathered brain!"

"He's nice!" Zoë shouted, her hands balling into fists. "And we talk all the time. It's not like Mama's around to talk to me. He said that someday, when I'm bigger, that maybe I can take over his job. It's a very important job, you know."

"Being the King of Hell is a very important and complex job. Wearing an ugly suit and sporting a Ken Doll haircut while sitting behind a desk making everyone else do your dirty work is so one-dimensional and terribly…prosaic. No imagination, no creativity, no charisma. If that is who you aspire to be…then you're more like your mother than I thought and I'm deeply sorry."

"I don't like you!"

Crowley was about to form a marvelous retort, but his phone vibrated again. It was another text from Dean.

_Where are you? The clock is ticking, dick._

Always a charmer, that one.

Grumbling as he shoved his phone in his pocket, he made the only choice he could make. It was, indeed, a day of limited choices. "There is no way I can leave you home alone. You're coming with me so you can stop your complaining. Let's go over some rules—"

"I thought you said rules were for people like my mother?" she sassed.

He wondered silently if Abaddon babysat angel spawn…

"Your mother and her progeny," he clarified. His exasperation was building at an alarming rate. "Rule number one: you listen to every word I say. _Every word_. Do not, I repeat, _do not_ talk to anybody. This little excursion may be, er, slightly more dangerous that the Sandman mishap."

At the word 'dangerous,' Zoë's tone changed instantly. "Another adventure?"

"That's not quite the word I had in mind."

"Do I get to use your blade again?" The excitement was almost too much for her (for the second time that night). Her small hands were too eager to hold a blade once more.

"Not mine." Removing it from the inside of his jacket, Crowley presented his young charge with her mother's blade. It glittered in the yellow light from an overhead fixture. To Zoë, Naomi's blade was like Excalibur; it was so majestic to eleven-year old eyes. She had never dared to touch it before, and not because of Naomi's threats of groundings and extra chores. That didn't stop her from occasionally opening up her mother's desk drawer where it was kept to admire it, though. Holding it rendered her incapable of speech. "Use this only if absolutely necessary. And don't tell your mother!"

Zoë managed to nod in solemnity. She grasped the weapon until her knuckles paled.

Crowley hoped that it wouldn't have to be used. He hoped that he could show up, take custody of Agiel, and then appear back at Naomi's; no fuss, no fight. He didn't feel comfortable taking the brat; if she got maimed or worse, Naomi would kill him. (Well, she could _try_ , but he was quite wily.) However, he wasn't going to let the Winchesters have all the fun. Oh no. He had plans for this bastard. It will be thrilling to make him scream, and not in the sexy way. While the dulcet tones of Agiel's pain-induced screaming filled Crowley's ears, he would take turns imagining it was Abaddon and every other bloody traitor in his kingdom who turned their backs on him.

Crowley also hoped he could torture some information out of him concerning Naomi's grace in the process. He wasn't sure what Abaddon was planning, but he was fairly certain it couldn't be anything good if it required an angel's grace. And if he didn't get Naomi's grace back immediately, it wouldn't be good for his livelihood. Briefly, he wondered if Naomi's missing grace and Abaddon's interest in Zoë were connected. It troubled him. He was resolute that he would find out. Woe be unto Agiel, for the King of Hell was coming for him.

"Where are we going?" Zoë asked curiously, her head tilted up at Crowley.

"To conduct business. I'm going to show you what a real ruler looks like."

In the blink of an eye, they disappeared.


	11. Me and the Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: M for mild language, violence, sexual situations, and references to non-con-- Not for anyone under 18
> 
> Author's Note: I started this fic over four years ago and the last update was about two and a half years ago. Wow! I always meant to write more and finish this fic. I am still quite the ardent Crowley/Naomi shipper. Real life gets in the way, though. Three years ago, I quit my career, packed two suitcases, left the southern east coast of the United States for the west coast of Canada to go to grad school, graduated, and now work as a librarian, my dream job. It's been a helluva ride, but now I'm ready to re-enter fandom and the world of fanfic. To all those faithful followers who kept reading and re-reading and sending me messages of encouragement and begging me to keep writing, this is for you.
> 
> Chapter title comes from the song Me and the Devil by Soap&Skin.

* * *

 

The King of Hell and his charge arrived in an abandoned parking lot on the outskirts of a small Montana town long after the sun had set. The moon was shrouded in darkness and an icy wind blew from the east, casting a chill upon everyone in its path. Zoë didn't mind; it was exhilarating being outdoors again. Spending the better part of the past few months imprisoned by four walls, her over-protective mother, and a gaggle of demons had caused a rather severe case of cabin fever and left her feeling claustrophobic. She wasn't dealing with this new existence in the graceful way that her mother had hoped; she kicked and screamed the whole way. Naomi's world was exciting with possibility, but Zoë sensed her mother didn't want her participating in her world. Leaving school and her friends behind had grown increasingly hard as Zoë craved stability and the company of peers. The only person who seemed to understand her was Bartholomew. He took the time to ask her how she was doing and took an interest in her. He was even trying to find her father for her, something her mother had never ever offered to do.

Zoë felt her mother's blade in the inner pocket of her coat beating a soft, steady cadence against her with each step she took. She felt so close to her mother in that instant; as though the inanimate object was somehow able to connect the two. She missed Naomi when she was away, and she was beginning to wonder if things would ever go back to normal. She accepted that some things would never be quite the same: she now knew that her mother was a celestial being, that angels and demons do exist, and that unicorns definitely do not. With her overactive imagination, she tried picturing her mother using the blade. She had never seen the angel in battle, but she was certain that Naomi was brave, fearless, and always knew exactly what to do. It was simultaneously awe-inspiring and irritating.

Presently, the eleven-year old felt very significant; a feeling she hadn't felt in a long time. Usually, she felt like a burden and something to be cast aside while the adults around her did things they couldn't talk about in her vicinity. Crowley was taking her on an important mission. Well, she supposed it was important; it was important enough that he grappled with having her accompany him and actually gave her Naomi's angel blade to protect herself. Confidence was surging through her veins after doing her first correct spell. It didn't matter that it was a spell to correct a previously disastrous spell. She had sent two Sandmen back from whence they came mostly by herself. Crowley's very small contribution as an assistant aside, she was the one that actually performed the spell.

"Remember what I said: do everything I say and talk to no one," Crowley repeated emphatically as they approached two guys standing next to a black car.

"Mr. Crowley, I'm not stupid," she responded, more than a little annoyed.

"No, just intractable, willful, and unruly."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't meant as a compliment!" he shouted in exasperation. He was never babysitting again.

The pair approached the two guys, one of them a giant; Zoë gazed up at the tall one. "Wow, I bet you don't have problems dusting the high shelves," she said to him.

"What did I just tell you?" Crowley asked incredulously, having just given her instructions less than a minute ago.

"It's about time you showed up. Who's the shrimp?" Dean asked, carrying a blade that Zoë mentally rated as "sweet," quelling any ire she felt at being referred to as a "shrimp".

"Cool! Can I see your blade?" Zoë grinned.

The girl started to go over to Dean, but Crowley pulled her back by the hood of her coat. "None of your concern. Where's Agiel?"

"No, seriously, what are you doing with a kid?"

"Nothing! Just hand over the bastard so I can get going!" Crowley was getting perturbed. He really didn't want to explain to these idiots who Zoë was and he really didn't want to have to admit he was babysitting. His reputation had already taken a serious hit as of late. Besides, the less people that knew about Zoë the better, especially if Abaddon was looking for her.

"He's in the trunk," Sam said. He and Dean surveyed Zoë as Crowley popped the truck to have a look at the demon he had spent months trying to track down.

"What's your name?" Dean asked her.

"Don't answer that!" Crowley called.

"Zoë."

They heard Crowley groan. "Do you ever listen to anything I tell you?"

"They just want to know my name!" she countered.

"Why all the secrecy?" Sam asked. He and his brother were now more than a little curious about this kid. Crowley had no interest in bite-sized humans and now he was running around with one.

"There's a difference between secrecy and something simply not being any of your business."

Dean's eyebrows lifted when something dawned on him. "Is this the kid Abaddon's trying to find?"

Appearing from behind the popped trunk, Crowley's eyes bore into him. "How do you know about that?" he demanded.

"We heard a few demons talking about it last week before we ganked them. Said they were looking for a kid, a girl; Abaddon has some kind of plan for her."

"Did they say what kind of plan?" he asked curiously.

"Abaddon has plans for me?" she asked Crowley. Normal children would have been a little worried upon hearing a bloodthirsty, demon-slaying maniac was after them; not Zoe. If anything, it made her feel important. "I'll take her out!" she declared, brandishing her mother's blade.

"Put that away!" Crowley hissed.

"Is that an angel blade? Where did you get that?" a bewildered Sam questioned her. Both he and Dean were uncertain what to make of the situation.

"No more questions! We'll be going now." Crowley dragged Agiel halfway out of the trunk, intent on vanishing with him and Zoë posthaste. That is, until he saw three demons plus Abaddon appear before them.

Crowley cursed loudly. Today was not his day at all, and if anything happened to Zoë, tomorrow wasn't looking good, either. He shoved Agiel back into the trunk, slamming it shut.

"Ah! Abadouche! It's so nice to see you, pet," he said smoothly with a nice touch of sarcasm as he sauntered over to her. "How's everyone's favourite ginger today?"

Zoë's confidence faltered a bit as she caught the Knight of Hell's evil gaze. She took a few steps back as Abaddon bore her flashing eyes into her. "So, this is the child?"

Crowley stepped between them, obstructing Abaddon's view. He pulled his blade from his jacket. "As much as I would love to hand the girl over to you, you will thank me later if I don't."

"You think that blade is going to hurt me? I'm going to give you one chance to move. I came for the girl and I'm not leaving without her."

"No, I don't think the blade will stop you. But it will slow you down long enough for Moose, Squirrel, and that little nightmare to get away."

Abaddon seethed. Her hand suddenly whipping out to grip Crowley's neck tightly, lifting him off the ground. He gasped for air as his windpipe was being crushed.

"Run!" Dean yelled at Zoë, who was rooted to the spot. She couldn't move; she was overwhelmed by feelings she hadn't prepared for. She saw a demon running toward her, a snarl on his face. She could feel her heart pounding harder and harder against its bony cage, hear her blood rushing through her ears faster and faster until it borne a high-pitched buzzing sound that drown out all the cacophony surrounding her.

The demon was a mere arms-length from her when Sam tackled him hard, knocking him to the ground with a thud. A struggle ensued. The thud brought her back to the present moment. With a firm grip on her mother's blade, she took off running to where the demon had Sam pinned against the concrete, punching him. After a moment's hesitation, she drove the angel blade into the back of the demon as hard as she could muster, tearing through muscle and sinew. He gave one final scream before collapsing on top of the younger Winchester brother. Sam regarded her dubiously for a scant few seconds before getting back on his feet.

"We need to get you out of here," Sam told her urgently.

"No! We can't leave Mr. Crowley!" Zoë started running towards Abaddon and Crowley with her blade out, but Sam managed to grab her by the hood of her jacket and pull her backward.

Dean killed another one of Abaddon's demons after a brief scuffle. He pulled Ruby's knife from the demon, blood still dripping from it, and ran over to join Sam and Zoë.

"Get her out of here!" Crowley managed between gasping and wheezing. Screaming in fury, Abaddon threw Crowley to the ground hard. She turned to Sam and Dean, who stepped in front of Zoë, shielding her.

Zoë tried not to shake. She gripped the blade so tightly that her sweaty hand turned white. Abaddon had plans for her. But why? Why her? Also, she was sure that whatever plans Abaddon had wouldn't be much fun.

"What do you want with her?" Dean barked at the menacing Knight of Hell.

Abaddon laughed; it was a laugh that made one's stomach drop, weighed down by dread and uncertainty. "Curious, aren't you? Why would I want a seemingly innocent, harmless little girl—"

"I'm not so harmless!" Zoë shouted defiantly on impulse, waving the angel blade in the air.

"Knock it off!" Dean snapped. "Do you want to be turned into kibble? Because she ain't playing, kid!"

"Rude." Zoë rolled her eyes.

"I'm giving you one chance to get out of my way. In return, I might even be merciful and kill you instantly rather than draw out your torture. I'm feeling rather generous today."

"Why don't you tell us why you want the kid so bad?" Dean said, trying to buy time until he and Sam could think of a way to get out of this very sticky situation. There weren't a lot of options that would allow the brothers to get out of the situation alive. In fact, the total number of scenarios that went through Dean's head that allowed for even a small chance of survival were exactly zero.

"Do you think I'd actually tell you?" she laughed as though that were the funniest thing she'd ever heard. "Zoë? Come here, you brat, or I'm coming to get you."

Abaddon disappeared and reappeared behind Sam and Dean—but Zoë was gone. The brothers glanced at one another trying to figure out if the other one knew something he didn't. They were standing in the middle of an abandoned parking lot next to the Impala; the girl couldn't have gone far. A high-pitched scream emitted from Abaddon, her wrath having reached an all-time high. It caused the ground to quake and lightning to zig-zag through the dark sky.

Without warning, a blade tore through the Knight of Hell's abdomen from back to front, causing her to scream in pain. She turned around and grabbed Zoë roughly by her long, dark hair. "You will pay for that!" She yanked the hair until Zoë's face was next to hers. She whispered, each syllable cutting through the air like a knife, "Your mother never wanted you; you are an abomination, something that never should have seen the light of day. As for your father—"

"You're lying!" Zoë screamed.

"Am I? I bet you sit in that house every day wondering if your mother ever notices you're there. She's always too busy for you, though. You know I'm right."

"You're wrong. My mother loves me," the girl declared, even though her conviction was betrayed by her quivering lip and hesitance.

"Come with me. You'll have everything you'll ever want."

Naomi's daughter stared at the pretty, silver-tongued demon who hit on Zoë's greatest fears. She didn't know what "abomination" meant, but the way Abaddon said it, it didn't sound pleasant.

"Hey, Abaddon!"

Abaddon looked up in time to see Sam throw a water bottle containing holy water in her face. Roaring as the water sizzled and burned her skin, Zoë leapt into action and wrenched the angel blade from Abaddon's gut. The Knight of Hell fell onto the pavement in an angry, screaming mess. She raised her hand to inflict damage on the three humans and the demon in her path when Castiel appeared, newly empowered with grace stolen from another angel.

"You will not hurt them, Abaddon," Castiel commanded her as he stepped between her and the others.

She lowered her hand and looked up at him absolutely incensed; then her eyes found the girl. In a tone that would send shivers up the worst demon's spine, she hissed, "You will never be safe. I will get you one way or another. I'm coming for you."

In a flash, a wounded, but still very much alive and furious Abaddon was gone.

"Thanks for waiting until the last minute, Cas," Dean said, annoyed.

"I was busy," Cas replied.

"So were we! Busy trying not to get killed by that maniac!"

"Things are volatile with the angels right now. More angels have been killed."

"Well, right now,  _we_  are trying not to get killed."

Castiel looked over at Zoë, focusing on the angel blade in her hand. "Abaddon wants her. Why?"

"We were hoping you could tell us why," Sam answered.

"Yes, I would like to know that myself," Crowley said as he lifted himself off the ground, dusting himself off. "But right now, we need to get going."

Cas stepped in front of him, blocking his path to his young charge. Narrowing his eyes at the King of Hell, he demanded, "Who is the girl, Crowley?"

"I don't answer to you."

Tempers threatened to flare when Zoë tugged the sleeve of Crowley's overcoat. "I want to go home, Mr. Crowley," she requested quietly, a tone he wasn't used to hearing.

"You heard her, kitten." He arrogantly stepped around Cas to the Impala where he dragged a bound and gagged Agiel out of the trunk.

"Just a little advice: the next time you boys want to do business, make sure you're not being followed by a BLOODY KNIGHT OF HELL!"

And then Dean, Sam, and Cas were alone.

* * *

 

Back at the house, once Agiel was subdued in the basement, Crowley popped into Zoë's bedroom. He was actually bursting with pride after seeing the angel spawn in action. She was a bit rough around the edges where combat was concerned, but could definitely hold her own. She had gumption. Crowley liked gumption.

But there was still the little matter of her room, which currently resembled a landfill.

"I see you still haven't cleaned your room. Your mother is going to be livid." He kicked a candy bar wrapper away from his very nice, very expensive shoes.

"I shanked a demon, I shanked a demon! I  _stabbed_  Abaddon!" she grinned at him, proud of her first kill. She was nearly dancing in place.

"Well, aren't you a little killing machine."

"I want to kill more demons!" she said with excitement in her voice.

"I'm a demon!"

"Yeah but he was a bad demon," she argued as she plopped onto her unmade bed. "He deserved to be killed."

"Pardon me, but I'm a very bad demon."

"No, you're not."

"I am, too!" The notion that he was anything but the King of Hell who inspired terror and fear wherever he walked beleaguered him greatly. Did other beings think similarly?

"Whatever." Abruptly, she changed gears. "Mr. Crowley, do you think I'm an—an abominabation?"

"Abomination?" He raised his eyebrows as his curiosity had been piqued. "Why do you ask?" he probed.

"No reason." She shrugged nonchalantly.

"That angry ginger called you an abomination, did she not?" He carefully sits on the edge of her bed, making sure he wasn't sitting in anything that could leave a stain.

"Maybe." She was being incredibly evasive. Crowley wished her mother would just tell him who Zoë's father was so he knew what he was dealing with.

He was going to answer truthfully, that angels weren't supposed to have children and that's why she'd not been informed of her mother's secret life prior to this whole kerfuffle where Metatron had tried to kill Naomi. However, seeing the worry on Zoë's face, he simply told her, "I wouldn't listen to anything that Abaddon has to say. She conflates fact and fiction and obfuscates reality for anyone that has the joy of being in her presence."

"What is an abom—an abom…ination?"

"Haven't you heard of a dictionary?" he groaned. He really didn't want to get into such a precarious conversation at this late hour with this particular kid.

"If you know what it is, then why do I need to look it up?"

Crowley swore to himself that he would never babysit again. He had envisioned this day being easy: full of research, a few glasses of Craig, and torturing demons. He yearned for the day in which his life would return to its normal ebb and flow, uninterrupted by the likes of eleven-year olds with a penchant for trouble.

Which reminded him, if he was going to continue to live at all, he needed to find Naomi's grace and quickly. Oh yes, and the First Blade. Abaddon needed to be stopped before she could send him to the big Empty.

"Mr. Crowley?"

"Ah, yes. An abomination is something that is terrible. Very, very terrible."

"Why would I be very, very terrible?"

"Maybe because she caught a glimpse of your bedroom?"

She rolled her eyes again; the signature move of the Tween crowd, apparently, as Crowley had seen her roll her eyes no less than a dozen times in just the last week alone.

"I'm being serious."

"So am I!" Crowley protested. "Filth helped the spread of the Plague, you know. Dark times."

"Fine!" she raised her voice. "I'll clean my room!" Zoë began tossing everything haphazardly into a pile that was steadily growing taller and wider in the far corner of her room.

"Good girl. Now your mother won't shank  _me._ "

Zoë gathered an armful of various things—clothing, wrappers, comic books, toys—and dumped them all together in the pile. "My mother probably doesn't even notice you're around. She doesn't notice much anymore. She doesn't have time to shank anyone."

"What brought that on?" he examined her face closely for clues to her sudden mood change.

"Nothing."

"She is very important—"

"Yes, I know. She's important to everyone in the whole wide universe," she responded in an impatient tone.

"I wouldn't go that far, Look, whatever Abaddon said back there, it's not true. She often says things to confuse you and to make you doubt. Divide and conquer—that's her motto. That's why we don't listen to angry gingers."

"You don't seem to like red hair very much. Why?"

He suppresses a shudder. "No reason."

When most of her belongings have been thrown into the pile, she throws herself onto her bed. "I'm done."

"If you say so…" The room looked slightly better; at least one could see the floor now. Crowley was pretty sure that a cluster of one-celled organisms had established a colony under her bed, but he wasn't going to make a fuss about it. Naomi had only given vague instructions to clean the room, she hadn't specified the level of cleanliness she required, nor a technique. As far as he was concerned, the room was clean. Now if only Zoe would fall into a deep sleep and not wake up until sometime tomorrow morning, letting him reclaim a small sliver of peace and quiet he'd planned for himself.

"By the way, it's best we don't tell your mother about our field trip this evening, or about your magic lesson…"

Immediately, she sat up and smirked. "Are you telling me to lie to my own mother?"

"Yes."

"I'll require a bribe. I don't lie for free."

"Fine. What do you want?"

"My iPad."

"Done. But only until your mother comes home."

"Fine."

They shake on it.

Snapping his fingers, the iPad appeared on the nightstand next to the girl's bed and he disappeared only to reappear in his office to pour himself a generous helping of Craig and to savour the victory of having Agiel in the basement. After cleaning and replacing Naomi's angel blade in her desk drawer, of course. His focus on the First Blade was renewed threefold after the night's events.

It was a little after ten o'clock when Zoë settled into bed. She'd brushed her teeth and changed into her pyjamas and was now listening to a Taylor Swift song through her headphones. She felt unsettled after Abaddon's threat, but was trying not to think about it. Having the iPad helped. She kept her mind off Knight of Hell by scrolling through the latest issue of  _Tiger Beat_  magazine looking for news of her favourite celebrities. Her mother had disabled most other functions, saying they weren't appropriate for her; if her mother only knew what she'd gotten up to that evening… There were a few apps she was allowed to use—games and some magazines—but she also had access to email, thanks to Mr. Bartholomew. He'd somehow bypassed her mother's parental controls to put Gmail on her tablet. He said it was necessary for them to communicate when he wasn't able to visit. She wasn't supposed to tell her mother; Naomi would only get mad and take the iPad away permanently, Bartholomew had told the girl. He was the only person paying her much attention these days. Mr. Crowley told her repeatedly how much of a pain she was and her mother was constantly occupied. Zoë felt isolated; there were no kids her age around, no visits to the cinema or to the mall, no walks outside. She hated to admit it, but she even missed school. Her world consisted of angels, demons, and the Winchesters. It was nice to have someone to talk to, who acknowledged her as a sentient being with feelings rather than something to "be seen and not heard" (and preferably not seen, either).

As she was reading the latest news about Selena Gomez, she received a notification: a new email from Mr. Bartholomew. It was a welcome way to end a day that saw her do her first successful magic spell and kill her first demon. Excitedly, she tapped the notification and was taken to the angel's message. She read over it once, then twice, then three times. The email sent her into a downward spiral, unable to properly process what she'd just read. Was it true? How could it be true? Why didn't her mother tell her?

_Hello, Zoë,_

_I hope you've had a good day. Your mother did a lot of good work today. We tried to get her to leave after a couple of hours, but she insisted on staying a little longer until suddenly it was late. She should be on her way home now._

_I have good news. As you know, I told you that I would help you find the identity of your father. I know how important it is for you to know who he is. What I am about to tell you may be very shocking to you, but I need you to keep it just between us. If your mother finds out that you know, she would be very upset._

_Zoë, I'm your father. I would tell you in person, but it is dangerous for me to travel right now. Keep this information to yourself and we will talk soon. I promise._

_Sincerely,_

_Bartholomew (Father)_

She felt as though the carpet had been pulled out from beneath her. Her eyes were pulled to each and every word to make sure she saw them correctly. Her surroundings suddenly became background noise. Everything else happening in the world was so unimportant compared to the assortment of little black letters on the screen of her iPad that spelled out her parentage, her history, and her life.

_Zoë, I'm your father._

Her life stopped, marking the enormity of the moment her eyes first scanned that sentence. The delivery of this particularly powerful statement in such an extraordinarily ordinary way muddled the paramount impact the statement should have had. It caused Zoë difficulty in forming an emotional response appropriate enough to capture the intense feelings swirling around in her gut. She should have felt cheated that such a precious statement was communicated by something as impersonal as an email, but all she could focus on was that she now knew who her father was. She had a father.

_Zoë, I'm your father._

Finally, she had an answer to her question; since she was a small girl, she'd asked her mother about her father, and never gotten an answer. She couldn't believe that her mother would keep her away from Mr. Bartholomew! He was nice, always giving her presents, and taking the time to talk to her. He treated her like a grown-up, not a little girl. She wondered if Mr. Crowley knew. Did everyone know except her?

She read the email again and again until she became overwhelmed and broke down sobbing into her pillow.

* * *

 

Naomi entered her house a few minutes before eleven o'clock. Life was taking its toll on her. She walked inside and shut the door, leaning against it as she removed her shoes. She shuddered violently just then, remembering Bartholomew's fingers on her skin, remembering him touching her as only a lover should. She wanted to vomit.

The house was thankfully quiet, not a luxury generally afforded to her; it was the price she paid for sharing a space with the King of Hell, his entourage of demons, and her eleven-year old daughter. She didn't want to see anyone tonight; Zoë included. She didn't even want to do any work. Surrendering to the physical and mental pain, she wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for days. She wanted her grace back; she wanted her old existence back. Heaven was where she belonged and where she longed to be. She needed agency over her own vessel. Each time Bartholomew touched her, he proved to her how weak and subservient she truly was. She could fight as hard as she wanted, but she was trapped: trapped by Bartholomew, trapped by Crowley, trapped by Abaddon, and trapped by Zoë.

Zoë's disheveled room was long forgotten, replaced by her mind forcing her to relive that day's humiliation and degradation over and over again. Perhaps this was some kind of cosmic retribution for her treatment of Castiel, Dean Winchester, and the countless others whose essence she penetrated with her instruments. As an angel of God, she shouldn't believe in things like syzygy, but her mind scrambled to make sense of her situation. The celestial bodies in the universe all seemed to be aligned against her. She'd wanted to do good; her mission was to do God's work as a righteous being of his creation. Along the way, however, it had become so damn complicated. She had been charged with making sure rebellious angels got back in line with their original God-given mission. She had been a force to be reckoned with for thousands of years; angels used to tremble at hearing Naomi's name.

And yet here she was, a mere human, devoid of grace and the right to call Heaven home. If it was anyone's fault for her current state, it was her own. She let Crowley cut her grace right from her neck. In trying to help her brethren and in attempting to keep her secrets, she sacrificed her self-respect and her freedom. She sacrificed the essence of who she was, chipping away at the layers of her being until she was the mess of nothingness presently staring back at her in the bathroom mirror. She felt like a golem: form without substance.

She hated this. She tried walking the line. She tried selflessness. She tried altruism.

Her only claim to dignity was finding the practices of both Malachi and Bartholomew abhorrent and abstaining from the violent power plays that had resulted in the deaths of over a hundred of her brothers and sisters. But the side of morality wasn't necessarily the winning side; she had understood this at one point. When she had awoken after Metatron had tried to kill her, she was resolute on being on the side of right this time, something she had tried to do after learning of Metatron's plan to expel the angels from Heaven. She'd gone to Dean with this information intent on changing her tactics and righting her wrongs. Any division amongst the angels would be costly to her and her brethren.

And here they were violently divided. Her efforts had made no difference. Taking the high road had garnered her no major achievements in uniting the opposing factions. It was hard to give a damn about any of them anymore.

Turning the light off in the bathroom, she silently padded to her office and removed her angel blade from her desk drawer. She hesitated. Its silver blade glittered in the moonlight streaming through the window. The handle felt heavy in her hand.

Her last fuck had run out.

She'd given reason over to emotion, her humanity getting the best of her. She felt like a cornered animal. Eschewing the proclivity to think carefully about her actions and all the possible consequences resulting from those actions, she summoned one of Bartholomew's lowly assistants over angel radio, an angel by the name of Lemuel. Lemuel was the quiet, naïve sort, and not too bright. Bartholomew had tasked him with watching Naomi's every move during her visits to Buddy Boyle Ministries.

Lemuel appeared almost immediately, curious as to why he was being summoned by Naomi, of all angels.

"Naomi?" he said, a bit surprised to see her so soon after her departure from headquarters.

"I need you to do something for me." She took a step toward him, her blade a heavy weight in her hand.

"I'm not sure if Bartholomew would approve of—of me taking orders from you," he replied hesitantly. He was well aware of what Bartholomew did to angels who went against his wishes.

"You don't have a choice."

His eyes went wide as she raised her blade in the air, and before he could say anything, Naomi slit his throat and hungrily devoured his grace as it seeped from a gaping wound in his neck. She felt its warmth flood her; her limbs were on fire with power. A bright white light consumed her vessel, and her wings, albeit broken and tattered, sprung forth. A small earthquake rattled the home where she stood.

From the basement, Crowley felt the floor tremble beneath him. He knew it couldn't mean anything good and wasted no time in appearing in Naomi's office. Immediately, he saw her wings standing proudly open and golden light radiating from where her eyes were supposed to be.

An "oh shit" left his mouth, which was wide open in disbelief.

Lemuel's vessel fell to the floor with a thud after she stabbed him through the gut. Jerking her blade from his body, his bright red blood trickled down to the hilt. She then turned to Crowley, her eyes back to normal, and sneered vengefully.

"I'm back."


End file.
